The Fluffy Clouds of Heaven
by Llewellwyn Mephistopheles III
Summary: The epic adventures of Dean and Cas. From baking cakes to singing musicals, their lives are never boring. Collection of small snippets and fluff!
1. The Tea Incident

**A/N: We own nothing, but how we wish we did. **

**Heads up: For more mature audiences check out our new story, The Smutty Clouds of Heaven.**

Dean stood in the Bobby's kitchen, filling a mug with hot water. He wanted some tea. Cas came up beside him.

"Dean," he pleaded in his characteristic monotone. "It will be an adventure."

"Somehow I doubt that, Cas."

Cas, disappointed that Dean didn't want to bake with him, frowned. "Dean, we need to discuss your doubt."

"My doubt in what?" he asked, watching the steaming cup of tea.

"Everything," Cas deadpanned.

Dean rolled his eyes. In an attempt to confuse the angel, Dean smacked Cas upside the head with a plastic bag full of tea. The angel frowned.

"What was that for?" he asked.

Dean said nothing and walked away, steaming cup of tea in hand.

A week later the angel appeared before the boys once more. Ignoring Sam, Cas proceeded onward to the elder brother. He hefted a plastic bag of tea and smacked Dean with it.

"God, Cas!" Dean bellowed, backing away. "What the hell was that for?"

"I assumed it was a human show of affection," Cas replied.


	2. Buttery Punishment

An otherwise tranquil morning was shattered by a loud scream.

In the kitchen, Dean scowled darkly from the corner. Cas was grinning madly.

"What the hell was that for?" Dean demanded.

"Punishment," Cas replied, as if it was painfully obvious. "For your lack of faith."

"Stuffing a stick butter down my shirt is punishment?"


	3. Castiel Tries to Cook

Cas was becoming increasingly worried for Dean. He understood that it wasn't normal for humans to abstain from eating, choosing instead to consume large amounts of liquor and booze. He came to a decision one day: If Dean wouldn't cook for himself, Cas would. He had never seen the human refuse a good meal. He was sure that once faced with a delicious cheeseburger, Dean would have no choice but to eat it.

Cas headed into the kitchen to prepare Dean's cheeseburger.

A few hours later, Dean was drawn toward the kitchen by the acrid smell of burning food. He rushed in, wondering what could possibly have gone wrong. He found Cas in the kitchen. The countertops were decorated grotesquely by the charred remains of what had once been food. Blackened chunks of… of… Dean wasn't sure what it was. He inched away, approaching the angel slowly. Cas was standing before a counter, glaring murderously at a package of hamburger buns. Dean watched as the bag began to melt, the plastic conforming to the outline of the buns. Soon the plastic blackened and the buns within shriveled to burnt chunks. It was over in a matter of seconds.

"Cas?" Dean asked uncertainly.

Cas raised his blue eyes to Dean, reading the alarm on the other man's face. "Yes?"

"I'll bite. What the hell are you doing?"

"I smote the buns."

"Oh, of course," Dean said. The angel didn't elaborate. "Why?"

"Tie was red and would not heed my orders to release the buns within. It was demonic. I had to save you."

Dean blinked stupidly for a moment. "Cas, seriously? A red twist tie is hardly a sign of the devil."

"Trust me, Dean."

"Shut up, Cas. Here, let me help."


	4. Demonic Tinfoil

"Dean."

"Yeah, Cas?"

"This tinfoil is demonic as well."

"No! Cas, don't smite the tinfoil!"


	5. Confectionery Disaster

Sam was tired and eager to return to Bobby's. He had enjoyed his day out with Sarah, but wanted some time to relax, perhaps read a good book. He hadn't had much time to read lately and had to take advantage of whatever opportunities came his way.

He pulled up to the house and parked the Impala. Sam was still in half-shock that Dean had allowed him to drive his 'baby' but had learned long ago not to question Dean bizarre fits of generosity. The house was quiet as he entered. Sam meandered toward the kitchen to grab a beer before heading to the library. As he walked into the kitchen, he stopped dead.

The place was a warzone. Thick, viscous blobs of what looked like cake batter were splattered on the walls. Black chunks of what looked like charcoal covered the countertops and a mountain of dirty dishes were stacked precariously in the sink. Sam poked one of the black lumps and saw what looked like a hamburger bun label, distorted and warped as if it had caught fire. In the center of the carnage, an innocent cake sat. It was a beautiful cake, chocolate, with glossy frosting and a light dusting of powdered sugar. Halved strawberries circled the top. Sam's eyebrows went up. It was an odd contrast: the carnage of the kitchen and the quiet perfection of the cake. A handwritten note drew his attention. It sat beside the cake unobtrusively.

'Hi Sammy!' It read. 'Enjoy!'

Sam groaned at the mess Cas and Dean had created, suddenly remembering why he never left his brother alone.


	6. Zeppelin Vs Phantom of the Opera

"Cas! We're _not_ listening to _Phantom of the Opera_!"

"No!"

"_Cas_. Give me the iPod. We're listening to Led Zeppelin. Get over it!"

"No! No, Dean! Give it back!"

Dean rolled his eyes at Cas' obscenely childish tone. "No, Cas. No _Phantom_."

"No! You're going to break it!"

"Stop fighting me then!"

"No!"

From his room upstairs at Bobby's, Sam rolled his eyes. _Children_.

*Cas eventually won, sort of. They listened to _Sweeny Todd_.


	7. Care for A Shave?

From across the room, Dean rolled his eyes as Cas sang along with _Sweeny Todd_:

"These are my friends… see how they _glisten_…."

Cas loomed closer, brandishing a straight razor. Dean involuntarily backed up a step.

"Get away from me, Cas. And where did you get the razor?"

"It's not important, Dean. You need a shave, yes?"

"No! Stay away!"


	8. ET

"E.T. phone home!" Cas called to Dean, prancing closer and brandishing a computer charger.

"Cas, we did not watch _E.T._ so you could butcher it."

"But, is this not what he does?" He waved the cable at Dean.

"No, Cas."


	9. The Bewitched Viking

"Cas… are you reading?" Dean asked, spying the angel perched on the couch.

Cas glanced up. "Yes. I have discovered a new genre of literature. It's very addicting."

"What is it?"

"The one I am reading is entitled _The Bewitched Viking_."

Dean stared with horror at the cover. At the mouth of a majestic and wooded cave, a tan, sword bearing, tights wearing Fabio stood. He looked over his shoulder dramatically, chiseled features schooled into an expression of cool confidence sure to lure the womenfolk.

Dean dropped the book as if it had bitten him. "Cas. This is a _romance novel_. Guys _do not _read romance novels. Put that away before someone sees you!"

"But… I enjoy the story."

"Too bad. I'm doing you a favor."


	10. Sweeny Todd Strikes Again

"They all deserve to die," Cas snarled. The angel was in an unusually bad mood.

"Jeez, Cas. Don't you think that's a bit much?"

"It is what the demon barber said. I considered smiting him, but you seem fond of him."

"I _do not_ have a fondness for _Sweeny Todd_." Dean looked away. He would never admit it, but he had secretly developed a liking for the musical ever since Cas had sung it one afternoon.

"Have a little priest…" Cas sang, dancing away.

Dean hid his smile.


	11. A Christmas Special

"Hey, Cas. Merry Christmas." Dean tipped his beer at the angel upon his arrival.

"I have a present for you, Dean."

"Uh, really?"

"Yes. Here." He proffered a small package to Dean. He tore off the paper and was confronted with the familiar oblong shape of a Sonic Screwdriver. Dean's jaw dropped.

"How did you…?"

"You seem to pick locks often and I was inspired by the… Who show we watched the other night."

"You mean _Doctor Who_?"

"Yes. That one."

"Thanks, Cas."


	12. Zombies!

Cas was interrupted from staring out the window by a bizarre noise behind him. He turned to find an inebriated Dean making slurping and gulping noises.

Dean saw him and beckoned him closer. "That's what it sounds like when zombies eat your brains," he whispered.

Befuddled, Cas remained silent, unsure what to do.

"Cas."

"Yes."

"Cas!" Dean shouted.

"Yes, Dean."

"_Cas!_"

"What, Dean?"

"Promise me something."

"Of course."

Dean dragged him closer by his lapels. "Promise me… _promise me_ that you'll never, ever, ever, ever let zombies eat your brains!"


	13. Of Packing Tape and General Harassment

"Hello, Dean."

"Hey, Cas."

"What are you doing?"

Dean looked up from sealing some packing tape over a box. "Packing some stuff up for Bobby. Guy needs more room for his book collection."

Cas wandered over to the tape gun Dean had discarded. "This object is unfamiliar."

"It's a tape gun."

"I do not understand."

"Here," Dean took the tape gun from Cas. "You pull the tape out and then the pointy thingies cut the tape. Don't hurt yourself."

Cas took the tape gun back, pulling out an experimental length of tape and cutting it. He promptly tangled his fingers in the sticky tape and looked for all the world like a lost puppy.

"Dean…"

Hefting a box, Dean looked over. A bemused smile crossed his face. "Way to go, Cas. Hang on." He set the box down in another room and helped the angel extricate himself. "Dude, that's so not what the tape gun is for. And stop wasting tape. I need that."

"Very well." The angel disappeared from the room with the tape gun. Dean returned to his task and didn't hear Cas reenter the room. Dean felt a pressure on his back and turned to see Cas behind him, wielding the tape gun as he affixed a piece of paper to his back.

"Cas! What are you doing?" Dean strained to see what the angel had taped on him.

"I am using the tape properly, am I not?"

"Uh…" Dean quickly found a mirror and turned. Taped to his t-shirt was a sticky note. The note was scrawled in Enochian. "Um, Cas? What does this say?"

"It is not of importance."

"What?"

"Trust me, Dean."

*Two Hours Later*

Sam walked into Bobby's living room, intent upon helping Dean pack up some of Bobby's old junk. He found the room packed away, boxes stacked in the corners.

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"Um, where are you?"

"Down here."

Sam walked around the couch and found a form vaguely resembling Dean sprawled on the floor. He was covered in yellow sticky notes and packing tape, so many layers of them his clothes were barely recognizable. There was even one taped to his forehead. Sam bent to examine the notes and saw they were all in Enochian.

"I take it Cas found the tape gun?"

"Shut up."


	14. Cas Discovers the Vacuum

"Dean!"

"Yeah?"

Cas stormed into the living room and found Dean slouched in an easy chair, nursing a beer. He fixed the human with his most imposing, angelic stare. "Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Have you been in the kitchen?"

"Well…"

"It is a mess. You ate lunch and it appears as though the refrigerator has exploded."

"What? It does not."

"Yes, Dean. It does. You should not leave such messes for Bobby."

"Thanks, mom. If you're so concerned about it, you clean it up."

"I am not your mother, Dean. But I will eradicate the mess."

"Wonderful. There's a vacuum in the closet."

Cas disappeared and a few moments later Dean heard the whirr of the vacuum. He rolled his eyes. Absently, he wondered how the angel knew how to use a vacuum when he seemed to be clueless about nearly everything else basic to human nature.

As if sensing Dean's thoughts, Cas called from the kitchen. "Dean!"

Dean groaned. "What?"

In the kitchen, he found Cas crouched over the vacuum. The angel had a manic look plastered across his face and was running the vacuum over the floor with gumption. "This is amazing!" he exclaimed. He looked up, his blue eyes shining with wonder. "What is this glorious machine called?"

Dean's eyes were wide with disbelief. "A vacuum…?"

Cas peered at him for a moment. "You have crumbs on your shirt."

Before Dean could protest, Cas sprang toward him. He brandished the vacuum hose and pressed it against Dean's chest. The vacuum tried in vain to gobble up Dean's shirt and as the hose came precariously close to sucking Dean's necklace up, he pushed the angel away. "Cas. That's not what vacuums are for! Get away from me!"

"But you need to be cleaned."

"No, I don't. Look, I can just brush the crumbs off. See?" He scrubbed his shirt furiously with his hands. Cas looked dubious.

"Trust me, Dean."

"No!"

Sam walked into the kitchen to find a snack and stopped in his tracks. Cas was bent over Dean, pinning him to the ground and had a vacuum nozzle pressed to the older man's chest. Dean was struggling valiantly but obviously losing.

"Sorry to disturb you guys…"

Dean turned to Sam, desperate hope in his eyes. "Sammy! Quick, get this psycho off me!"

Sam laughed. "Sorry, Dean. But I have to be… uh, over there." He walked quickly out of the kitchen, trying to stifle his laughter.

"You bitch!" Dean called.

"Dean," Cas said, deadly serious. "Stop struggling."

"Sam!"


	15. Crutches

Dean was lounging in the living room, enjoying an episode of _Dr. Sexy, M.D. _while Sam wasn't around to nag him about his guilty pleasure. An odd tap-thump, rhythmic and steady, echoed from the back of the house. Interest piqued, Dean went to investigate.

He found Cas hobbling down the hallway on a pair of crutches. He blinked for a moment and watched the angel struggle to make the crutches work properly.

"Dean," Cas said upon seeing him. "I found these. What are they?"

"They're called crutches, Cas."

"They are fascinating." He limped forward a few steps, an expression of wonder on his face. The angel was using them wrong, walking the crutches forward and then dragging both of his feet behind. "What are they for?"

Dean resisted the urge to laugh. "Uh, if you screw up your leg and can't walk on it you use crutches. You're using them wrong, though." He showed the angel how to properly use them and Cas was soon motoring around the house, a cacophony of noise following him.

Dean and Sam walked side by side, flashlights in hand and salt shotguns at the ready. They were hunting a particularly nasty spirit, but Dean was having trouble keeping his attention on the hunt. He turned to Cas as the angel followed them.

"Why did you bring those? We're trying to be quiet here," he hissed.

Cas glanced down at the crutches. "I enjoy them."

Dean rolled his eyes and turned around, trying to ignore the click and thump of Cas as he walked with the crutches.

The boys proceeded upstairs. Dean tried to ignore Cas' struggle as he refused to let the crutches go and walk up the stairs normally. "Dean," he whispered.

"What?"

"I am having difficulties."

Before Dean could answer, there was a loud crash. He turned to see the angel tumbling down the stairs, a mess of flailing limbs and crutches. He landed at the bottom with a loud thud.

"Cas!" Dean rushed down the stairs and knelt beside him. "You okay?"

"I am fine," the angel replied. He dusted himself off and glared murderously at the crutches. "I will return." He disappeared with the crutches, reappearing a scant second later.

"Cas?" Dean asked.

"Yes, Dean."

"Where are the crutches?"

"I smote them. They are a device of the devil."


	16. ARMADILLO!

It was an uneventful afternoon for the boys. Sam was out on an ice run and Dean sat in their motel room cleaning his guns and trying keep out of the worst of the midday Texas heat. Once night fell, they would head toward the old warehouse on the edge of town and confront the djinn living within. But at the moment they had some downtime.

Looking up, Dean was greeted by the disgruntled face of an armadillo struggling for freedom against Cas' unrelenting hands.

"Cas, why the hell do you have an armadillo?" Dean asked. He took several steps back to avoid the creature's flailing limbs.

"On my way here I came across several cheerleaders trying to get rid of the animal. Apparently it was a failed 'mascot', whatever that is. I offered to take it off their hands."

"I'll say it again: why?"

"You have mentioned that I might benefit from having a pet. I 'seized an opportunity' as you sometimes say."

"An armadillo is hardly a pet," Dean scolded. The door to the motel room opened and Sam returned from getting ice. His eyes settled upon the distressed animal and he began to back out of the room.

"Look, Sammy, Cas found you a pet," Dean said

"Um, no way Dean. Those things carry leprosy," Sam said. He made a final dash for the exit and slammed the door in his wake.

"_Leprosy? _God, Cas!" Dean's voice was muffled by the pillow he had pressed against his face for a rudimentary mask. "Get rid of it!"

"But Dean," Cas whined.

"No, no. Go put it outside. Now."

"Very well," Cas relented. He disappeared, taking the poor critter with him.


	17. Does This Makeup Make Me Look Clownish?

The brothers Winchester, plus an angelic companion, were enjoying a nice evening off at The Roadhouse. Dean and Sam were talking hunting with Ellen and Cas was left to his own devices. Jo spied the angel hovering near the back of the bar, nose buried in a magazine. As she meandered toward him, she saw the magazine was _Cosmo_.

"Hey, Cas. Got any good tips to share?"

The angel blinked at her. "What do you mean?"

Jo smiled. "Nevermind. So, how are things?"

"If by 'things' you mean my life since I last saw you, I have been good."

"That's good, I think."

"I do not understand," the angel said, holding up the magazine. "Why do the women in these publications have charcoal around their eyes and a shiny substance upon their lips? What purpose does it serve?"

Jo thought for a moment, an evil plot forming in her head. "Well, it's what people do when they like someone. It's like a custom. If they want to impress their lover or someone they're in love with, they wear what's called makeup to attract their attention."

"It is a human custom?"

"Yeah. Everybody does it."

An hour later, Cas was upstairs in Jo's bathroom. She had kindly offered her cosmetics and to help, but Cas had refused. He wanted to do the makeup himself. Dean often encouraged him to explore human customs. He wanted to impress Dean, wanted to make him happy.

It was with thoughts of Dean in his head that Cas applied the makeup. Using the _Cosmo_ ads as guidelines, he applied the various cosmetics. The process was harder than he had anticipated, but the angel was undaunted by the task at hand. He would impress Dean.

Half an hour later, Cas proudly traipsed downstairs. Walking up behind the brothers, he tapped Dean on the shoulder to attract the man's attention. The brothers turned in unison. Everything seemed to happen at once. Sam let out an effeminate scream and toppled off his barstool, scrambling backward. Dean choked on a mouthful of beer. He was lost to a fit of half laughter, half coughing. His attempts to clear the liquid from his lungs were waylaid by the laughter wracking him. Jo was beyond speech as she giggled in the corner and Ellen merely smiled indulgently. Dean was laughing so hard tears were gathering at the corners of his eyes, his hands clasped over his stomach.

"God, Cas!" Sam gasped, trying to recover from his horrible reaction. "You look like a clown!"

"Sammy… Sammy _hates_ clowns!" Dean cackled.

Sam reddened and righted himself, suddenly becoming very interested in his beer.

"I… do not understand," Cas said. Their reaction was not one he had anticipated. "You do not approve?" He touched his face, confused.

"Cas," Dean said, still recovering from his mirth. "Uh, I don't know where you got the idea, but guys don't usually wear makeup. You look like the bride of Frankenstein." Dean lost his tenuous composure and dissolved into another fit of laughter.

Cas realized that somewhere along the line, he had made a mistake. He turned to Jo and saw her laughing nearly as hard, guilt coloring her face as well. Cas suddenly understood. He had been the victim of the cruel human tradition of a 'joke'. He returned to the bathroom and washed his face, clearing off the ghastly cosmetics. While there were no outward traces of humor on his face, he was happy. While Cas had not achieved his original goal, he had still made Dean laugh. It was enough for him.


	18. I'm a Leopard, Dean!

"I'm a leopard, Dean!" Cas exclaimed proudly. A furry mass was perched upon his head. Dean soon realized it to be a hat, tiny fuzzy ears poking out amidst a mass of spots.

"So you are," he replied, sufficiently distracted from his hamburger. His tone held the placating amusement of one dealing with the insane. Quite happy with Dean's reply, Cas walked away, growling softly to himself. Thinking he was safe from Cas' eccentricities for the moment, Dean returned to his meal. Scarce moments later, he felt a wet tongue run across his scalp.

"Dude! What the hell?" He demanded. He jerked away from Cas' lolling tongue, abandoning his hamburger and scrubbing his hair furiously.

"You were dirty," the angel replied. "I was trying to be of assistance." As if to demonstrate his intentions, he licked the back of his hand and smeared it across the top of the hat, cleaning himself as cats are known to. Dean stared at the angel for a moment before shaking his head and returning to his hamburger. Some things were best left alone.


	19. The Ultimate Tribute to Your Lover

Castiel found himself with some free time—a rare occurrence for an Angel of the Lord. The Winchester brothers seemed to value such free time and Cas felt he would try to enjoy himself as well. The only problem was that he had no idea what one did in free time. Castiel formed an idea. He had often seen Dean reading magazines while relaxing supine on a motel bed. He proceeded to a human magazine stand and surveyed the shelves of entertainment.

Hundreds of titles stared back at him: _Esquire, Cosmo, Revolver, Vogue_. He was unsure of which to choose. The cover of one magazine in particular caught his eye. A woman stood, lips parted seductively and an impressive array of what Castiel recognized to be tattoos spread across her pearly flesh. Dean often read magazines with pretty women on them. Perhaps they were a variety of entertainment he would also enjoy? He peered at the cover.

Interest piqued, Castiel picked up the magazine. He flipped through the glossy pages until he came to a full page ad. He scanned it.

'A Permanent Tribute to Your Lover:

'Pay the ultimate—permanent—tribute to your lover. A tattoo is forever. Why not proclaim your undying love for them by getting a tattoo of their name? 10% discount thru February 14!'

An idea blossomed in Castiel's mind.

After his evening of free time, Cas went to rejoin the Winchesters. He found them in a rundown, backwoods hotel, as per usual.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said.

"Hello, Dean."

"What's up, angel boy?"

"I have returned from an evening of... 'R and R', as you call it."

"Yeah? How'd that go? Meet anyone worth mentioning?" Dean winked lasciviously.

"Of course not."

The hunter's face fell and he stared at Cas, unimpressed. "You had free time and did… what with it?"

Castiel looked away. "Are you on a hunt?"

Dean's green eyes became sharp as he picked up on Cas' subject change. He peered at the angel for a moment. Castiel saw the change in his face as his eyes focused intently on Cas' chest. A sudden stab of—was it fear?—shot though Castiel.

"What is that?" Dean asked. He gestured vaguely at the angel's chest.

Cas looked down to see a dark slash of ink poking out of his collar. "Nothing," he said too quickly. Dean grinned and stepped closer.

"Come on, Cas. What is it? Don't make me tackle you."

As the angel was considering, Dean sprang on him. The hunter threw him to the ground and had him pinned far too quickly. He tugged off the blue tie and unbuttoned Cas' shirt. He revealed, much to Castiel's chagrin, a massive tattoo emblazoned across the angel's chest. It proclaimed simply: 'Dean'. The hunter peered at the tattoo, a strange expression that Castiel couldn't read on his face.

"Dean…"

"Cas, you tattooed my name on your chest? Could it be any bigger?" It spanned the expanse of Cas' chest, from one nipple to the other.

"The magazine told me that it… it was a…"

"A what?"

"An ultimate tribute to your lover."

Dean blinked at the angel for an unbearably long moment.

"Dean? You don't like it?" Castiel's face fell.

"No, Cas. I…" Finding himself at a loss for words, Dean simply leaned forward and kissed Castiel. "I love it."

"Really?"

The hunter smiled warmly. "Yeah." Dean looked away for a moment. "Just… don't show it to Sam."


	20. Tattoos All Around!

After getting Dean's name emblazoned across his chest, Cas discovered he had something of an soft spot for tattoos. He had observed the artist as he had filled in the D-E-A-N on his chest, had catalogued each of the tools utilized. Having procured himself a tattoo machine, he was happily seated on one of the motel beds, doodling on his arm. Being angelically ambidextrous had its advantages, as did being able to heal anything and everything he drew on his flesh. He was amused for several hours before growing bored of merely drawing on himself. He wanted to gift someone else with a sample of his beautiful artwork. But who?

Immediately, he knew. Dean did not have any tattoos to Cas' knowledge, save the anti-possession tattoo on the hunter's chest. Cas decided it was time to rectify that.

As the hunter slept that night, the angel crept to his bedside. Dean slept soundly. Using his angelic mojo to keep the hunter from waking, he quickly decorated Dean's arm. His business finished for the night, he left the motel figuring he would be summoned upon the tattoo's discovery the following morning.

Dean awoke the next morning to an irritating sting on his forearm. He lay in bed for a moment, trying to remember if he had injured himself on their last hunt. His arm was stinging like a bitch, something between a knife wound and a bee sting. Roused by the pain, he sat up and examined his arm. His sleep addled brain took several seconds to interpret what his eyes were seeing. Thin black symbols ringed his upper forearm. He rubbed at them. They didn't disappear or smear. The skin was raised beneath his fingertips and stung under pressure. Slowly, Dean realized the symbols were Enochian. The familiar yet still foreign writing was apparently tattooed upon him. Once more, he rubbed the symbols, trying to scrub them from his skin. He was rewarded with another sharp lance of pain. Dean's eyebrows knitted together as he raised his eyes skyward.

"Cas!"


	21. What Does My Tattoo Say?

"Cas," Dean said firmly. "Tell me what the Enochian on my arm means."

"It is not of importance," the angel replied.

"Cas, it is important. I know you can doodle on yourself and then mojo it away, but I can't. I'm stuck with this on my arm forever and I want to know what the hell it means!"

"Do not worry, Dean. I will protect you."

"What? Cas, that's got nothing to do with—" The angel was gone. Dean threw his hands in the air and stormed off to find Sam, hoping he knew some Enochian.


	22. Castiel Embraces His Feline Side

"Cas," Dean said, fixing the angel with a solemn stare. "I know I told you to get a pet, but an armadillo doesn't count."

Cas looked away, remembering the incident well. He had been so sure of his success. Unfortunately, he had put both the Winchesters at risk by toting a 'leprosy-carrying' armadillo about and mistakenly labeling it a pet.

"What do you suggest?" the angel asked.

Dean thought for a moment. "How about a cat or a dog? They're easy."

"A cat or a dog? Are those animals common pets?"

"Yeah. Some people like cats and some like dogs, it just depends on what you're in to."

"I do not know what I am… 'in to'."

Dean sighed. "Alright. Go spend some time with a cat and a dog, see which one you like more."

"Then what?"

"We'll get you a pet."

"Very well." The angel disappeared.

The angel had spent time with a dog and a cat and determined he was of the feline persuasion. What Dean hadn't counted upon was Cas' behavioral change upon owning a pet. The angel had decided that aspects of the cat's behavior—namely hissing—were very useful. He first discovered this change a few days after the feline addition to their entourage.

"Hey, Cas. Why don't you mojo yourself over to the Burger King down the street and get us some food. I'll take a bacon cheeseburger, extra onions."

"I cannot, Dean."

"Come on, man. My baby's having some trouble and I'm hungry." The angel gave no answer and Dean looked up from examining the Impala's engine. Cas was standing a few feet away, his kitten grasped protectively in his arms. He loved the cat dearly. His reverent attachment to the small feline was starting to send off little alarm bells in Dean's head.

"Why not?"

"I have Mr. Fluffykins to care for."

Dean grimaced at the name. He had told Cas upon learning the cat's name that he would never call the cat something so horribly cutesy. No way in hell. "Just leave it here. It won't go anywhere you can't find it later."

As Dean watched, Castiel lowered into a crouch. His lips pulled back and air was audibly forced from his throat. It wasn't so much heavy breathing as higher and sustained.

"Did you just hiss at me?" Dean balked.

"Mr. Fluffykins employs hissing to ward off enemies and express discomfort. I have determined it is an effective deterrent of negative behavior beyond the animal kingdom."

"You know what? Forget I asked." Dean turned away from the angel and the kitten, busying himself under the Impala's hood and stoutly ignoring the rumble of hunger in his gut.


	23. And Then There Was Glitter

Dean was not happy. Traipsing alongside his brother through a haunted craft store did not a good time make. Especially when said ghost was determined to cover them in all manners of confetti, ribbon and glitter. They had been drawn to the case upon hearing of some unusual deaths—people literally choking to death on glitter. Copious amounts of the damned stuff had filled their throats with no obvious explanation for how it got there. The brothers had immediately been interested. As it turned out, the craft store was being haunted by a particularly energetic three year old ghost. It was how the Winchesters ended up covered head to toe in sparkly, rainbow conglomerations of glitter.

Back at the hotel, Dean was beyond fuming. The glitter was everywhere: in his hair, his ears, under his fingernails, in every inch of his clothes. But worst of all, there seats of the Impala had glittery smears decorating their polished leather. It would take him days to get all the glitter out.

Cas appeared in the center of the room. His patented composure melted when he spied Dean covered in a foreign, excessively shiny substance. He neared the hunter, curiosity making him forget his hard learned lesson of 'personal space'. He stared at Dean, a finger reaching out to touch the shiny substance. His hand came away covered in it.

"Dean. What is this magical substance?"

"Cas, personal space, dude. It's called glitter and I hate this fucking stuff!" The hunter rubbed his scalp furiously, dislodging a large cloud of the shiny glitter. It rained down upon his shoulders, sticking in his eyebrows and long lashes.

The angel was mesmerized. He rubbed his hand across Dean's shoulder, gathering as much of the glitter as possible. "This is amazing!" He began painting himself in it. He began to rub himself upon the hunter, coating his skin in the glitter. "I want more!" He tackled Dean to the bed and ripped the man's shirt off, shaking the glitter over his head.

"Cas!" Dean exclaimed. His features were twisted into a bizarre amalgamation of unadulterated horror and disbelief. "What the hell are you doing?"

The angel stoutly ignored the hunter's outrage. He needed more of the glorious glitter. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It spawned such a need within him he could not comprehend the magnitude of it. He knew only that he needed more. He saw great masses of it perched in the hunter's hair. Without a second thought, Cas grabbed Dean's head and licked the glitter from his scalp. Even then, he needed more. Dean's jeans were covered in the glitter. His hands shot toward Dean's belt buckle and began to tear at the leather furiously. Dean had been previously still, paralyzed by his shock. As he felt the angel's hands on his belt, he sprang to life. Jackknifing off the bed, he backed against the wall.

"Cas! What the fuck is wrong with you!" he demanded.

"Glitter," the angel husked. "Need more."

Dean knew the look in the angel's eyes. Admittedly, it was usually plastered upon the face of one of his female conquests, but it was the same lustful, come-hither kind of look. Dean knew the angel wanted the glitter _on_ him and not him per se, but it didn't make him any less uncomfortable.

"Cas, calm down," the hunter protested. Cas advanced upon him once again, hands outstretched and aiming for the glitter stuck to Dean's jeans. "What's wrong with you? Is glitter some sort of angel crack?"

Castiel ignored him. The angel made a frustrated sound when Dean continued to keep him away from the glorious glitter-covered jeans. Instead, he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Dean's thigh. Like a contented jungle cat, Cas rubbed against the denim. He thoroughly coated himself in the sparkly substance, loving the tickle-rasp of it against his skin. Dean continued to make noises of general distress, but Cas ignored his protests. He had his glitter and would not be denied.

Sam chose that moment to walk back into the room from his sojourn to a local fast food joint. Dean was glad his brother had already showered and de-glittered himself. He wouldn't put it past Cas to tackle the younger Winchester and smother him too. Sam's eyes landed upon Dean and Cas, tangled as they were in the corner. Dean could only imagine the sight they must make. He, covered in glitter and half naked with a blissed-out Cas clinging to his thigh and rubbing against him like a sparkly cat in heat. The angel didn't even notice the arrival of the other Winchester. He was too busy licking and rubbing at every sparkle of glitter, determined to have them all to himself.

"Uh, should I leave you two alone?" Sam was torn between embarrassment and amusement. The look of horror on Dean's face was priceless. Cas just looked out of it, eyes half lidded as he sparkled in the dim light of the motel room.

"Sam! Thank God! Get him off me," Dean shouted. He pushed at Castiel but the angel barely moved.

Torn for a split second, Sam eventually strode toward his brother. It took a bout of determined, muscle straining manhandling to finally pry Cas off of Dean. The angel looked as if the hunters had just ruined his most beloved dream, as if every evil in the world was revealed to him. He looked positively broken. Sam took pity upon the poor creature as Dean bolted to the bathroom to shower.

"The glitter," Cas whined. "It's gone…"

"Cas, uh, glitter isn't that hard to come by, you know. It usually comes in little bottles in craft stores, not on Dean."

Before Sam could blink, the angel was gone. The next morning, every craft store in a five mile radius opened their doors to find their entire stock of glitter had vanished in the night.


	24. Save The Turtles!

Dean was outside the motel room when he heard the muffled shout and unmistakable sounds of a scuffle. Dropping his fast food, he rushed inside. Expecting the worst, he froze for a minute, dumbfounded as he took in the scene. The hunter was greeted not by the sight of Sam engaged in mortal combat, but Cas in a rather uncomfortable position. The angel was bent in half and wedged in the small space separating bed from night table. It was far too small for any human body to willingly fit in, but the angel seemed to be stuck. He was rolling from side to side, attempting to dislodge himself and failing miserably.

"Jeez, Cas. You look like a turtle stuck on its back. What happened?"

The angel fixed Dean with an irritated stare. "I… miscalculated my landing."

"Your landing—oh, you mean when you were flying? You missed?" The hunter smirked as he pulled Cas up.

"Yes, Dean. It would appear so." He righted himself with a dignified flourish, looking for all the world as if he hadn't just been stuck between a bed and a night table.

After Dean had retrieved his food and began eating, Cas spoke.

"Dean. Earlier you said I looked like a turtle. What did you mean?"

"You know, you looked like a turtle when its stuck on its back."

The angel continued to look blank.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Turtle have shells, right?"

Castiel nodded.

"Well, in cartoons, whenever they roll onto their backs they can never get up because the shell kind of… I don't know… won't let them touch the ground?" Dean threw his hands up in the air at his ineloquent finish. "You just do, alright?"

Cas' expression clouded with deep thought. "So, the turtle's shell can be a hindrance if they happen to roll over. They will get stuck."

Dean glared at the angel. "Yeah, sure."

"How unfortunate."

Dean paid the angel no mind, returning to his burger and blissfully unaware of the horror he had unleashed.

For the next several weeks, Castiel's attention was often diverted from a present task by the sight of a turtle. For each of the creatures he saw, he read their mind, picked them up and transported them to their destination. He could not, as he put it, 'allow them to possibly fall upon their backs and become stuck'. After his flight miscalculation he seemed to have developed an attachment to the creatures, determined to keep the turtles from the compromising position he had experienced firsthand. At first, Dean let it slide. He could allow Cas his eccentricities and the angel rarely took to a task with such fierce determination. Secretly, the hunter found it slightly cute. Cas would stop dead in his tracks and listen intently. He would announce simply 'I am needed' and disappear to save whatever turtle was currently 'in distress'. But, after several weeks, Dean was becoming annoyed. It was starting to interfere with Cas' ability to function.

He couldn't walk twenty feet without disappearing to save one turtle or another. The third time he disappeared while on a hunt, Dean called him out.

"Cas! Enough with the turtles, man!"

"But Dean," the angel protested. "They need me."

"Cas," Sam said. "You need to stop taking everything Dean says so seriously. Turtles don't really fall on their backs and get stuck."

"Really?"

"Yes!" Dean exclaimed. He turned away, muttering to himself. "Of all the references to take seriously, why the damn turtles?"

After that, slowly but surely, Cas cured himself of his turtle saving compulsion.


	25. Cas Gets a Car

After losing his mojo and traveling via car with the Winchesters for months on end, Cas decided he needed a car of his own. He saw how much Dean adored his 'baby' and wanted something to dote upon and lavish as well. Dean often encouraged him to explore new avenues of human behavior and it seemed anomalous for a human not to own a car. Thus, Castiel was convinced he needed one too.

Days of searching ensued, but he couldn't find the right car. The Impala and Dean seemed to go together better than 'peanut butter and jelly' as Sam said. Cas wanted his car to fit him as well. The search was consequently slow, but he was determined. A few weeks after he began scouring the earth, Cas found the perfect car. It was beautiful, all graceful lines with an undercurrent of masculine tendencies. And, most importantly, it screamed 'Castiel'. The moment the angel saw it, he was smitten.

There was, however, one small snag. It didn't run. The man he bought it from had rambled something about it needing extensive transmission work and mentioned something called a radiator. Cas paid the man no mind. He knew exactly how to fix it.

A few weeks later, Cas unveiled his 'baby' to the Winchesters. Sam dissolved into a fit of laughter upon seeing the angel exit the car. Dean stood with his mouth agape.

"Cas? You bought a car?" he asked.

"Yes, Dean. I wanted something to lavish affection upon as you do with the Impala. It is a human custom to own a car, is it not?"

"Well… yeah," Dean shot Sam a glare as he continued to laugh. "But why'd you buy _that?_"

"You do not approve?"

"No, I just never would have pegged you as an Alfa Romeo guy. A… white Alfa." The hunter stared at the 1970 Alfa Romeo Giulia for a moment before remembering how to work his legs. "What kind of engine does it have?"

Cas smiled. This was the moment he had been waiting for. "The man I purchased it from said it needed extensive work, but I soon solved all the problems."

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed you knew anything about cars, Cas."

The angel moved to open the hood and display his handiwork. Before Dean could so much as get a glimpse under the hood, a furry ball shot out of the engine compartment and latched onto his face. All fur and claws, Dean recognized the fury of Mr. Fluffykins—the damn feline had always hated him. He swore and scrambled to remove the spitting cat off of him. He lobbed it in an unknown direction and spun on Cas to skewer him with a murderous glare.

"What the fuck was that?"

The angel looked hurt, staring after the car longingly. He had the gall to look apologetic. "I'm sorry Mr. Fluffykins doesn't like you, Dean. But he was my solution to the engine difficulties."

"How the hell did you fix a car with a cat?"

"You always say the Impala purrs. Now my car does too!"

Sam continued laughing in the background as Dean stalked away to clean his wounds.


	26. Chocolate Ice Cream

With the dingy motel television droning in the background, Castiel sat on the bed eating chocolate ice cream. The angel had recently discovered a liking for sweets and other treats in the decadent dessert vein. Dean glanced over and saw that Cas had not only managed to consume the entire pint of chocolate ice cream in little over a few minutes, but had also ended up wearing a good portion of the confectionary treat. The hunter rolled his eyes and grabbed a napkin. Somehow, in the recesses of his mind, a small voice had been telling him this would happen. Cas was like a five year old in every other respect—why not food?

Cas struggled as Dean began scrubbing him with the napkin. "Cas, hold still, damn it."

"This displeases me," the angel whined. He squirmed away from Dean.

"Dude, you're covered in chocolate. Let me wipe it off before you get it everywhere."

"No."

Sam, who had been sitting innocently at the motel room table surfing the web, felt dread curl in his gut like a leaden snake. He caught the mischievous-with-sexual-undertones glint in Dean's eye, even if Castiel the Naïve had missed it. Sam knew exactly where the situation was going.

And the two didn't have a shred of modesty or a care for how fragile his psyche was becoming. There's only so much mental scaring a man can take. Sam was fast approaching his threshold. He left the motel room just as Dean leapt at Cas and tackled the angel to the ground. He was fast, but not fast enough. He caught a glimpse of Dean lapping the chocolate off of Cas' lips. It was enough to send him sprinting for the door, computer charger completely forgotten and dinner half consumed.

The next morning, Cas reemerged—Sam had gotten his own room. The angel strode up boldly and fixed Sam with a solemn stare.

"I am in grave need of more chocolate ice cream."

The younger Winchester gave the angel directions to a grocery store and returned to his room to listen to extremely loud music. At least his room wasn't next door.


	27. The Jesus Candle

A/N: No offense meant. For the purpose of humor only.

Sam and Dean were on a hunt. The particular hunt required them to build an alter, complete with an alter cloth, incense, a sacrifice and of course, candles. The candles they had bought were ghastly, tall things with ridiculous effigies of Jesus emblazoned upon the glass. Dean grabbed one of them and tried to rub the Jesus picture off.

"Hey Sam, I'm polishing the Jesus candle!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to touch that line with a ten foot pole."

Dean smirked and set the candle down.

Cas suddenly appeared behind the hunter. "You will regret saying such filth, blasphemer." The angel was obviously pissed. He touched his fingers to Dean's forehead and the two promptly disappeared.

A solid two days later, Sam was beginning to become worried. His brother was still M.I.A and Cas showed no signs of appreciative humor concerning the 'Jesus candle' comment. Another day passed before Sam summoned Cas out of worry.

"Cas! Where did you take Dean? He's been gone for three days!"

"He is being punished," the angel deadpanned.

"Meaning what?"

"He is not in danger, Sam. I merely dropped him in a world without pie and Chevrolet Impalas."

Sam cracked a smile. For all of Cas' stony nature, he could be evil when he wanted.

Dean returned two days later. He never spoke of polishing a Jesus candle again.


	28. Glittery Sneeze

"Sam." Dean pulled his brother aside. His face was grave, immediately setting the younger Winchester on high alert.

"Yeah?"

Dean glanced around surreptitiously. "We have a major problem."

"What? Dean. What is it?"

"I… shit. I don't know how to explain this. C'mere."

Rarely was Dean at a loss for words. Sam's 'Oh shit' meter was currently maxed out, his senses on such high alert it was near painful. Something had to be seriously wrong and his lack of knowledge was driving him insane.

Dean led his brother into their hotel room. Inside, Cas sat. He was surrounded by a cloud of glitter.

"Oh god," Sam moaned.

"Yeah. See what I mean? It's like angel crack."

Castiel completely ignored the two men. He was presently preoccupied as he rolled about in his glittery sea. One would guess he had ingested some seriously potent drugs. The angel lolled about, a dopey grin plastered across his face as his eyes twitched constantly. His gaze was glazed and his pupils blown. Every surface of him, clothes, skin, even his mouth was coated in glitter.

"When you said 'we have a problem'… _Cas _has a problem," Sam said.

"No shit," Dean snapped. "What do we do, send him to angel rehab?"

"Uh…"

Suddenly, Cas froze. His face crinkled and he screwed his eyes shut. Sensing the worst, the Winchesters automatically dropped into defensive crouches. For a tense moment, Castiel remained coiled with locked muscles, as if at any moment he would explode. And explode he did. He sucked in a deep breath and sneezed something awful. An enormous plume of glitter shot from his nostrils and cocooned his head. The Winchesters straightened and watched in shocked silence. Cas, if anything, seemed overjoyed by the sudden emergence of more glitter. He made a sort of cooing gasp that sounded pleasantly surprised, if a bit manic, and continued to roll in the glitter.

"We are so screwed," Dean muttered. Sam couldn't help but agree.


	29. Withdrawals

A/N: A ridiculously exuberant 'Thank You' to all those that have reviewed! This is becoming unhealthily long, but we enjoy writing it and hope you continue to enjoy reading it.

Castiel was experiencing withdrawals.

It was awful, a constant gnawing in his gut that would only be satisfied by the one thing the Winchesters weren't giving him: glitter.

Cas was the first to admit that he was less than familiar with human customs and traditions. But he liked to think he at least had a rudimentary understanding of human history, having experienced much of it himself. He knew that humans had been struggling with drug addiction for many centuries. He couldn't help but see some similarities between his glitter cravings and a hard core drug addiction, but he refused to believe himself that far gone. Despite Dean's adamant assertions to the contrary, Castiel believed that he could successfully nip his glitter loving tendencies if the occasion called for it.

And honestly, he didn't understand what all the fuss was about. His vessel would not be damaged—even the abuse wrought by actual hard narcotics could be remedied. They weren't on a hunt and his skills were therefore not required. He was simply indulging himself.

Or, that _had_ been Cas' view of his love for glitter. He was rather forced by circumstances to accept that perhaps his problem was slightly worse than he previously acknowledged.

It had started innocuously enough: with a harmless bout of B and E to a local convenience shop. The Winchesters had been hunting a particularly nasty sprit and needed some last minute, spur of the moment supplies that couldn't wait until the morning. Castiel had accompanied them on their excursion.

He wandered through the store, peering down the aisles and looking at the various unnecessary knick knacks and trash that covered the shelves. Down one aisle, it was heaven on earth. There was no other way to explain it. The aisle was full of snow globes. Inside the snow globes and suspended in water for his viewing pleasure, was glitter. Castiel felt a need rising up within him like he had never felt before. In all of his previous encounters with glitter… okay, he didn't remember much, but he hadn't recalled such a raging craving. It felt like a hungry beast squirming in his gut. It demanded attention and satisfaction, but more importantly, it demanded glitter.

Cas recalled nearing a shelf of snow globes and picking one up. Past that moment of sheer joy at his discovery, he did not remember anything. The next thing he knew, the Winchesters were standing before him with their jaws on the floor. Cas had emerged from his bliss-induced haze to find himself covered in snow globe glitter, the shattered remnants of said snow globes littering the floor of the store like the aftermath of an explosion.

Two days later and Castiel was still blowing glitter from his nose.

Oh yes, he had a problem.


	30. The Great Sunglasses Incident

Two lone figures exited the local Safeway. One's arms laden with beer and the other carrying nothing. His arms dangled uselessly at his sides as if he wasn't sure what to do with them.

As Dean stepped out of the air conditioned store and into the blazing heat and brilliant sunshine, he winced. They were in the Northwest for fuck's sake. It wasn't supposed to be this sunny. And the sun, hovering as it was over the tree-covered horizon, was doing its damndest to blind Dean. "Cas," he said, barely maintaining his grasp on all the booze he had bought. "Grab my shades."

The angel turned his blue gaze upon the hunter and located the sunglasses perched upon Dean's head. "You want me to do… what with them?"

"Put them over my eyes so the sun doesn't burn them out of my skull. Fuck it's bright."

"Ah." The angel pushed the shades down and they landed awkwardly on Dean's nose, horridly lopsided and effectively blocking only one eye.

"Dude, take them off my head and put them on."

The angel tried again. The pair continued to walk meanwhile. Despite Cas' best angelic coordination, walking was simply too jarring. The shades ended up skewed yet again. Dean huffed a sigh and stopped walking. "Okay. Once more."

Finally, the shades were put in place. Scant moments later, the lone cloud moved in front of the sun and the sunglasses were moot.


	31. Hell o ween

It was Halloween, or Hell-o-ween, as Dean had unceremoniously dubbed it. In other words, it was the Winchester's least favorite holiday. Said Winchesters sat in their motel room drinking beer, watching television and generally avoiding the supernaturally costumed public that would begin traipsing about as soon as the sun set.

Dean rose to retrieve another beer. It was going to be a long night, one made worse if he was sober. As he returned to his bed, he felt a presence behind him. Acting on instinct was not unfamiliar to Dean. When all manner of supernatural beasties are charging you and hell bent on mutilation and/or death, there is no time to think. Dean liked to think it was his ability to improvise that made him such a good hunter. That being the case, when he felt someone lurking behind him and a hot exhale of air near his neck—prime vamp real estate—he acted on instinct. He spun and caught his attacker by surprise, toppling them both to the scratchy motel carpet as he drew his gun from his waistband. Dean was well aware that if there really was a vampire trying to sneak attack him—how the hell had it gotten in—his gun wouldn't be much use. He was simply counting on the surprise factor to save his neck… and maybe Sam to save his ass.

But instead of a snarling vamp, Dean was face to face with Dracula. A clichéd, fake fanged, 'I vant to suck your blood' Dracula—with very familiar blue eyes.

"Cas?" Dean asked. He had nearly shot the angel. Cas' angel mojo would have healed him, but still—shooting one's partner is so not good for a relationship. "What the fuck are you doing? I could have killed you! Well, maybe not. But Jesus, dude. Why are you dressed like Dracula?"

"I ish huun custn, ish ict no?"

"What?"

Castiel spat out his atrociously fake fangs and repeated himself. "It is human custom, is it not? To dress up as a monster on Samhain?"

Dean blinked at Cas for a moment, amazed at the angel's naiveté. How did dressing as a vampire and surprising supernatural hunters ever seem like a good idea? Truth be told, Dean would take Cas-ula over a real vampire, but still. As he calmed, he realized he was still pointing his gun at Cas and quickly stowed it, hauling the angel up after him. "Dude, lay off the bloodsuckers around us. Bad idea."

"You do not like my costume?"

Sam managed to rescue himself from his fit of laughter on the other side of the room. "Cas, we hunt the supernatural. We've seen real vampires. Anyone who dresses up like those guys is seriously demented. We hate Halloween."

"Oh." The angel seemed crestfallen. Suddenly, he lit up. "I shall return."

Dean rolled his eyes and sank down on the bed, running a weary hand over his face. He had just managed to seize his beer and take a healthy swig when Cas reappeared. Dean gagged on his mouthful of beer and was forced to expel it or choke to death. As he dissolved into a fit of coughs, Sam took notice of the angel and let out a sort of strangled gurgle. Dean was reasonably sure it was a mixture of shock and perhaps embarrassment, but was too preoccupied with his own suffering to comment.

Castiel, however, seemed completely content to allow the Winchesters to right themselves and fully appreciate his costume for the wonder he considered it. The angel was dressed as none other than a Playboy bunny. He was clad in a royal purple bustier, lacy bits added for decoration. He sported white bunny ears, a fluffy cotton tail, hose and heels. He had gone full Monty.

Sam steadily inched out of the room. There was no way he was hanging around for whatever innuendo was sure to ensue. No way. It didn't matter that they were currently staying in Lake Tahoe, or that the newscaster on the television had advised people to stay indoors due to a freak snow storm that had rolled in. He hopped in the Impala and started driving. He could drive clear to the coast of California and not be far enough from Dean and Cas. In fact, beaches sounded really nice.


	32. Authenticity

"Cas, are your bunny ears moving?"

"I opted for authenticity."

"That would explain why the tail didn't come off with the rest of the costume."


	33. Who IS the Stig?

A/N: If you don't watch BBC's _TopGear_, you may want to skip this chapter…

Dean sat all by his lonesome in the motel room. But it didn't matter. He had a beer in one hand, a cheeseburger with extra onions in the other and _TopGear_ on the television. He'd discovered it during his many channel surfing excursions and had become quite fond of the British humor-infused car show and more importantly—the beautiful supercars they reviewed. Dean wouldn't trade his baby for anything: so what if she liked to go in a straight line rather than corner? But still, anyone who would pass up an hour of ogling Ferrari's, Aston Martin's and all manner of beautiful cars was either stupid or dead.

That being said, Dean had become well acquainted with their 'tame racing driver' called the Stig. The Stig was an enigma, if anything. In his white helmet, white jumpsuit and all around unrevealing get up, he was the resident mystery of the show. Some people wanted badly to know who the Stig really was but Dean was of the 'let it be' persuasion. Why ruin the mystery?

The next day Dean walked into the motel room to find Cas leaving the bathroom. He was in his customary holy tax accountant garb and looking flustered. He snatched a duffel bag off the bed.

"Hey Cas," Dean said. "What's up?"

"Not now, Dean. I am late." The angel was gone.

"Okay…" Dean grabbed his lunch and moved to flop on one of the beds. He promptly tripped and fell flat on his face. The cheeseburger flew off into the distance and Dean cursed up a blue streak. He looked back at what he had tripped on and froze. It was a shoe. A white racing shoe with a familiar Alpinestars logo emblazoned on the side. The shoe was familiar—very, _very_ familiar. The enigmatic Stig wore shoes just like them on _TopGear_. In fact, they looked exactly like the Stig's shoes.

Interesting.

Over the next few days, Dean noticed other… links… between Cas and the mysterious Stig. He wasn't sure if he was losing his mind or if—dare he say it—Cas _was_ the Stig. The more he thought about it the more ridiculous it sounded. But an annoying little voice in the back of Dean's head wouldn't let him dismiss his findings as coincidence.

For instance in one _TopGear _episode—Richard, James and Jeremy were doing some research at the _TopGear _offices—Dean caught the Stig lurking in the background. Dean watched the white unknown attempt to work a coffee maker. He was failing horribly. Stigy had put the coffee filter in the carafe itself and was staring at the coffee machine as if it would reveal its secrets if glared at long enough. As Dean watched, he saw a tan trench coat thrown over the back of an office chair. He choked on his French fries as he stared at the coat, a coat he recognized as easily as Sam's brooding and pensive shoulders. It was Cas' trench coat. It had to be. It was the same drab, tan, almost-flasher coat the angel wore without fail.

Another time Cas walked into their motel room (after a strange absence) with distinctly obvious helmet hair.

The final clue fell into place a few days later. Dean and Sam were in the middle of God knew where. Another successful hunt under their belts, the two wanted nothing more than to hop in the Impala and speed back to the motel for some hard earned rest. But no. They were sadly Impala-less. It was a cruel twist of fate and Dean was seriously irritated.

"Cas!" he shouted.

"Yes, Dean." The angel was right behind him.

"Grab the Impala, would you? There's no way I'm walking five freaking miles back into town."

"But I could tele—"

"Uh-huh. No way, angel boy. Just go get her. We'll be here."

"Very well."

Dean glanced at his watch: three in the damn morning. Sleep sounded wonderful.

A minute passed, then three. Cas hadn't returned yet. Dean glanced at his watch again. The angel was quickly approaching four minutes and ten seconds to retrieve a car that was under five miles away. He had his angel mojo, why was it taking so long?

As if following some unspoken queue, Cas rounded the corner of a building behind them.

"Finally! Way to take forever, dude."

The angel boldly strode over to Dean and deposited the Impala's keys in the hunter's hand. "Forgive my time. The handling is poor."


	34. Defensive Maneuvers

The silence of the kitchen was broken only by the solid thwack of a stick of butter impacting human flesh and the ensuing cry of rage. Dean clutched at his abused collarbone, rubbing away the radiating pain.

"Dude! What the fuck? Did you just throw _frozen_ _butter_ at me?"

"I felt threatened," Cas answered.


	35. The LOOK

Dean made for the motel room door. The hungry beast in his belly was demanding food, specifically a double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions.

"Wait Dean," Cas cried.

"Dude, chill. I'm going for food. I'll be back in five."

"But…"

Dean turned to Cas, eyebrows raised and incredulous. The fast food joint was only five minutes down the road. It was, in retrospect, a mistake to look at the angel. Fixed upon his pale face was an expression so betrayed, so crushed, that it provoked guilt enough to give Dean pause. Cas' brow was slightly furrowed, his wide eyes displaying aching vulnerability. It made Dean feel as if he was violating the angel in the worst way possible. It was horrible.

"Cas, what the hell is that look for? Jesus, I feel like I'm raping you or something!" Dean turned away, horrified. He had never felt so dirty—sex offender, not-in-a-good-way dirty—in his life. Suffice it to say he spent his evening cuddling with Cas instead of stuffing his face. In the wake of such a look, it was his only choice.


	36. Pam

Even after the disastrous makeup incident, Cas still liked spending time with Jo. He enjoyed her company and considered her a close friend. That morning the two of them were upstairs in Jo's room at the Roadhouse. She had requested Cas' help with a hairstyle.

"I know you don't know anything about doing hair, Cas," she said. "But I just need another set of hands."

"May I keep them attached while you use them?"

Jo laughed. "Of course! That's not what I meant. Just… hold this." She piled a lump of her blond tresses atop her head and instructed Cas to keep it there. She pulled a black cylinder from a cabinet and yanked off the top. It looked alarmingly like the cans of spray paint the Winchesters used to pain devil's traps. Surely it wasn't for use in one's hair…

"Jo."

"Yeah, Cas?"

"I do not believe putting spray paint in one's hair would be beneficial."

"It's not spray paint, Cas." She lowered the can and held it forward for his examination. "It's called hairspray. It helps keep your hair in place. See?" She held a lock of his hair up and coated it in hairspray. The sharp, chemical smell stung Castiel's nose. The lock of hair refused to lay flat. It was oddly textured and brittle to the touch.

"Humans use this willingly?" he inquired.

"Yeah, they do. I kind of hate wearing it, though. I only use it for special occasions."

The angel nodded his understanding and went back to helping Jo. He would remember this so called 'hairspray' for the next special occasion he had.

A few days later Cas walked into Bobby's kitchen to find Dean cooking. It was a rare occurrence and signified something important had happened or would in the near future.

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"What is the occasion?"

The hunter grinned. "It's Bobby's birthday."

A special occasion indeed. Cas nodded once and turned to leave. Then he spotted it. Sitting innocuously on the kitchen counter was a familiar cylinder. It was a can of hairspray. Cas wasn't sure why Dean would have hairspray in the first place (his hair was too short) or why it would be in the kitchen, but it didn't matter. It was a special occasion and rather than borrow Jo's, it turned out that there was hairspray here for him to use. The angel quickly snatched the can off the counter and retreated to his room to get ready.

When Castiel emerged an hour later, he wasn't absolutely sure of his faith in the hairspray. It was a runnier than he remembered and had a penchant for making his hair shiny and greasy. Perhaps it was merely a different brand. Not only was the spray itself different from the one Jo had used, but the name was also dissimilar. The name on her can had sounded French. His can simply said 'Pam'. It was a woman's name and the cylinder was roughly the same size and shape as the can he had seen previously. Castiel was unsure but relatively confident he hadn't made a horrible blunder.

As Castiel took his seat next to Dean, the hunter's eyes were glued to his hair.

"Hey Cas," he said uncertainly. Dean paused for a moment and sniffed the angel's hair. "Dude, you smell like vegetable oil."

Castiel paused. "It is hairspray, is it not?"

"Uh, you used hairspray? You sure? Cause that really looks and smells like Pam."

"Yes."

Dean was confused. "Yes what?"

"That was the brand name: Pam."

Across the table Sam grinned and Bobby rolled his eyes skyward. Dean struggled not to laugh at Cas' mistake.

"What is it?" Cas' expression of confusion was adorable.

"Uh, Pam is cooking oil," Sam said. "Not hairspray."

Dean gave the crestfallen angel a peck on the cheek. "Come on, greased lightning. Let's go get you cleaned up."

Cas swore off hairspray after that.


	37. Its Electric!

Innocently enough, Castiel walked up to Dean and reached out to tap the man on the shoulder. But rather than an innocuous touch, it was a near painful jolt. Castiel recoiled. His finger felt as though someone had pricked him with a pin. There was no residual pain, but the sensation itself was altogether unpleasant. He stared at the tip of his index finger as if it would explain the occurrence.

"Oww, Cas. Quit shuffling."

The angel peered at his feet. He was not 'shuffling.' "Dean, I do not understand. What is going on?"

"You zapped me."

"I did… what?"

"Zapped—it's like an electric shock. My mom used to say it was because I dragged my feet when I walked. You get all… static-y and when you touch someone it sort of… escapes." Dean looked away at Cas' confused look. "Alright, there's some science behind it but you'd have to ask Poindexter to explain the technical end of it. Point is, don't do it. It hurts."

The angel's face remained impassive, successfully concealing his nefarious plotting within.

Castiel discovered that he quite enjoyed the phenomenon of 'zapping'. Sam had kindly filled him in on the science end of it all, but what mattered most to Cas was that it was an excellent way of underhandedly driving Dean insane. Over the next few days Cas purposefully zapped Dean—only a few times, few enough to make it seem accidental but enough to annoy the hunter. Cas often observed Sam and Dean 'pranking' one another and it made him feel more human to participate in such revelry as well. And it was immensely enjoyable.

Dean became even more annoyed when the trio came across a supernatural baddie fond of electrocuting its victims. The hunter was hyperaware of electricity. It seemed that he was always getting shocked by something—Cas, Sam and any other conductive surface under the damn sun.

But Cas took pity on his poor hunter. While they were stalking the electrical creature he decided he wouldn't zap Dean. No, instead he would give the man a period of reprieve during which he would let his guard down. Then, when he least expected it, Castiel would strike. But for the moment, he would lie in wait.

The day had finally come. Cas had been itching to zap Dean all week. It was fun to annoy the man and Cas was fascinated by the bizarre sensation that accompanied shocking someone. Quiet as a mouse, so even Dean wouldn't hear him, Castiel crept up behind the hunter. The angel had spent all morning shuffling around in thick socks, building up the static electricity in preparation for the big moment. It was sure to be epic.

Dean sat on the motel bed, sharpening a knife to maim their latest beastie with. There was something innately calming about sharpening a knife. But when he felt the hairs at the base of his neck stand on end, he knew something was wrong. He felt a charge near his skin—electricity. The shock was a painful jolt and Dean knew he had to act fast. The creature must have followed them back to the motel. It was fast, but Dean was confident he was faster. He spun, knife held high and brought it down in a wide arc.

The knife sunk into Cas' neck with a solid, albeit wet, _thunk_.

Dean's heart lurched into his throat when he saw it was Cas he had stabbed—maimed… _killed!_—and not the creature they were hunting.

"Dean?" Cas gurgled.

"Fuck!"

Castiel sunk to his knees and wrapped a hand around the handle of the large Bowie knife. A gruesome geyser of blood was spurting from his neck in rhythmic waves. Dean felt as though he would be sick.

"Cas? Cas! Are you okay?"

The angel pulled the knife out and it made a sound horrid enough to churn even Dean's stomach. The hunter watched as Castiel put a hand over the wound and white light fluttered underneath his palm. He removed his hand and the grotesque knife wound was gone. The wound had disappeared but the image of Cas bleeding with a giant knife sticking out of his neck was forever seared into Dean's mind. He tackled Cas and gathered the angel up into a bone-crushing hug.

"Fuck, Cas. I'm so sorry."

"It is alright, Dean. I am fine."

Dean fixed him with a tired stare. "Oh, okay then. Excuse me while I go have a heart attack."

"I would warn against that. A heart attack would—"

"Jesus Cas, I wasn't serious. What were you thinking? Do you have a death wish or something?"

"I did not realize you were sharpening your knife."

Dean tried to laugh but failed miserably. His heart was still pounding in his chest.

"Perhaps it was not the best idea to shock you while we are hunting a creature fond of electrocution."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"I am not Sherlock."

"I know. Nevermind."

Castiel watched as Dean collapsed onto the bed and tried to calm down. The angel decided to quit zapping Dean.


	38. The Guilt Trip

"No way. You can't make me."

"Dean. You stabbed me. I nearly died because of you and yet I forgave you. All I want is—"

"Alright, alright! Shut up already. Gimmie the damn costume."


	39. Prank Wars and Cas

Sam glanced about surreptitiously as he coated the outside of the beer bottle in superglue. It was an old prank admittedly, but Sam knew that Dean wouldn't suspect anything until it was too late. With an evil cackle he disappeared to lie in wait.

A few minutes later, Castiel appeared.

Cas wasn't having a good morning. He was experiencing what Dean had referred to as a 'headache'. He remembered the sensation from when he drank the liquor store. It was greatly unpleasant. Unsuccessful so far in his attempts to find something called 'Aspirin', Cas wandered into the kitchen and saw the cold beer bottle sitting on the countertop. He had often seen Dean press a cold bottle to his temple when his own head was hurting—surely the same remedy would alleviate his own suffering?

Sam saw Cas beeline for the bottle and knew disaster was imminent. He shouted warning but the angel had already grabbed the bottle by the neck and pressed it to his forehead.

"Cas! I… um, that bottle…" he trailed off, unsure how to explain.

"I am aware it is not its intended purpose," the angel responded. "I am experiencing an ache-head."

"Headache. You have a headache, Cas."

"Yes. That."

"Well…" Sam gave up. He would find out sooner or later. Sam would just be far away when he did.

Unfortunately for Cas, Sam had applied an appallingly thick coat of superglue. It became a common sight to see Cas wandering about absently, a beer bottle fixed to his forehead.


	40. My Dear Friend, Charles

"Cas, there you are," Dean said. "Where were…"

Sam zeroed in on where his brother's eyes were glued. "Cas… is that a _fish tail_ poking out of your mouth?"

The angel's face was blank as he sucked what looked suspiciously like a goldfish tail back into his mouth. "You summoned me?"

Repeatedly unsuccessful in their endeavors to get Castiel to elaborate on the fish tail incident, Dean decided some drastic measures were needed. While Sam was out getting dinner, he rang Cas. The angel appeared several seconds later.

"Hello, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, hi Cas. We need to talk."

"Of course."

Dean manhandled Castiel onto the motel bed. "Alright, start talking, angel boy."

"What do you wish to know?"

"I want to know about the damn fish tail that was poking out of your mouth! Why the hell was there a fish in your mouth? Better yet, how did you not know it was poking out?"

Castiel sighed a sigh of the long suffering. It was a sigh that made Dean feel horrible for asking and ignorant for not knowing already. He hated it.

"Charles is a dear friend of mine," Cas answered solemnly.

"Charles." Dean's stare was blank.

"Yes. He is a goldfish."

"A goldfish named Charles. Okay. Please tell me he doesn't live in your mouth."

"Do not be foolish. He lives in my stomach. He was on holiday in my mouth."


	41. Whiskey and Apple Juice

Dean stared at the result of his handiwork. An apple juice container sat on the counter, a quarter full with an innocuous looking amber liquid. But rather than apple juice, the jug was filled with Jack Daniel's whiskey. And, as a warning, 'WHISKEY' was scrawled across the side in fat marker. Dean sat back for a moment and changed the caption to read 'DEAN'S WHISKEY'. He grinned and shoved it to the back of the fridge.  
>He moved on to deal with the remains of the horrid whiskey disaster. Dean still wasn't entirely sure how he managed to break the Jack Daniel's bottle in the first place. Lucky for him, only the neck had shattered. After some careful straining—glass shards weren't a component of any cocktail Dean had ever had—he had transferred the remaining whiskey to the juice jug. With the rest of the kitchen cleared, Dean left to watch TV. He opted for a beer instead.<p>

Castiel, ignorant of the powers of spirituous liquors, wandered into the kitchen. Human life was new to him in many respects. He determined—after much internal debate—that he was thirsty. Often, when the Winchesters were thirsty, Castiel observed them wandering over to the fridge and selecting a cold beverage. He decided to follow suit. Bobby's fridge held an impressive gamut of beverages and Castiel hadn't the slightest idea which he should choose. How does a human choose a beverage? It couldn't be taste. Even if it was, Castiel had no idea how half of the liquids would taste. He chose his drink based on the aesthetic appeal of its package.  
>The container was large, though only partially filled. On its side was a colorfully rendered tree, plump red apples hanging from its branches. The bottle proclaimed its liquid to be apple juice. Rather than retrieve a glass, Castiel simply took a healthy swig from the jug.<br>The angel coughed as the liquid burned a path down his esophagus. It was the oddest sensation he had ever experienced. It was bitter, fiery and sweet simultaneously. Both intrigued and thirstier than he was when he sought out a drink, Cas took another sip. Again, the sensations assaulted him and nearly made his eyes water. What a strange drink, apple juice. Castiel had eaten an apple before and it tasted nothing of the liquid in the jug. How had the humans processed it to make it so... _addictive_. Castiel found he quite liked the strange reaction the juice provoked from him. It was an intoxicating, sensory rush unlike anything he had experienced prior. Castiel drank more of the strange juice.

Dean took a swig of beer and stabbed the mute button on the television as a commercial interrupted his laziness. As he stared off into space, the acrid smell of smoke drifted under his nose. It settled uncomfortably in the back of his throat. Dean glanced about alertly. He and Sam weren't hunting anything at the moment but perhaps a wayward baddie had found them.

Prowling around the living room, he peered out a window. The sight that greeted him was perhaps the last thing he expected to see.

Rather than a supernatural creature hell-bent for leather, he saw Castiel standing out in the yard. The angel was swaying back and forth rather drunkenly. Clutched in one hand was a jug of…

"Oh shit," Dean breathed.

Outside, the smell of smoke and burnt landscape was worse. Dean coughed and waved a hand in front of his face to try and get a breath of clean air. He neared the angel cautiously. He had seen Cas in such a mood before—namely a smiting mood—when the angel had last tried to cook Dean a meal. As he watched, the angel stared intently at a tree. The trunk began to blacken as the leaves smoked and vanished in a puff of velveteen ash. The tree withered and died, curling toward the ground and eventually collapsing in a pile of charcoal and dust.

"Cas?" Dean grinned. He had no idea how drunk the angel was. He glanced at the apple juice jug and winced when he saw nearly all the whiskey was gone. "Dude, leave the tree along. What did it ever do to you?"

Castiel swiveled and nearly toppled. Dean caught him. "Oh, Dean! It's so nice of you to come and visit me. Bad tree." As Dean struggled not to burst into laughter, Castiel giggled and scowled at the tree he had recently smote. He leaned in close and Dean could smell the alcohol on his breath. "The tree was in league with Lucifer, Dean. It had to be stopped."

"Look at you—a drunken _and fallen _angel. Kinky."

"And it was staring at me. I don't like it when trees stare. It's impolite."

"Yeah, I hate that. C'mon, let's get you inside. You're gonna have a bitch of a hangover later."

Castiel resisted Dean's urging for a moment. He stared at a patch of grass. Dean watched it wither and die, joining the dead tree in all its ashen glory. "The grass was working with Lucifer too. I saved you, Dean."

"My hero. Come on."


	42. Blanket Fort

Cas sat in the dingy motel room, flipping through the channels on the excessively small television. There really wasn't much on. Cas didn't exactly have expansive television tastes as most of his experience with the light box was through Dean's channel 'surfing'. Nonetheless, his hunter was absent—working a job—and he was left without charge. It was how he found himself flipping to a common children's show he'd seen Dean watch occasionally when he was drunk. He wasn't exactly sure what was going on, but the moment he saw the lumpy blanket contraption, he knew he had to make one.

The only problem was that Cas had no idea how to make what the program called a 'blanket fort'. Surely someone would know. The show suggested it as a fun activity with friends or family. Cas immediately thought of Sam and went to find the overlarge Winchester.

He found Sam outside, walking back from the local library. Arms laden with books and nose buried in another, Cas strode up to him and waited for the younger hunter to notice him. Sam looked up and started violently.

"Cas? What are you doing out here?"

"I require your assistance."

Sam's brows knitted together. "With what?"

"I wish to build a 'blanket fort'."

"A… A blanket fort? Why?"

"I've determined it to be a common childhood activity," the angel explained. "I did not have a childhood and therefore wish to experience all I have missed."

"So, you want me to help you with this? Why?"

"A male figure commonly assists a young child. I have no father and have come to think of you as my Uncle."

"What about Dean?"

"Dean is… not a father figure."

Sam knew that Dean was far from an ideal role model, but he also understood that Cas was referring to a different reason—a reason he didn't want to get into. He had walked in on the two of them enough. He didn't want to spend any more time thinking about his brother's various lovers.

"Alright," he agreed. "I'll help. But we'll need supplies."

An few minutes later, both men returned to the motel room. Their arms were laden with sheets and blankets freshly boosted from the motel linen closet. Sam had also helped Castiel break into the broom cupboard and borrow a few brooms and other things to keep the tent afloat. Back in the motel, they went to work. It was difficult, what with the shortage of chairs they suffered from. But utilizing their ingenuity to its fullest potential, they managed to create a passable blanket fort. Most of the roof was low enough to force one to crawl, but in certain well thought out places it was tall enough to kneel. Sam had given up any hope of being able to stand. He knew Cas would be satisfied with whatever he was able to give him. At the end of it all, Sam had to admit that it was a pretty good blanket fort.

It was even composed of a few rooms. A main sitting/sleeping area had been constructed between the two motel beds. A sitting room had been erected at the foot of the beds. The door was near the actual motel door, with a back entrance to make it to the bathroom. They had made chairs for sitting and managed to leave some Sam's larger research books around as small tables.

Dean came back shortly after they finished. He walked through the door as he was known to do, with food and booze in hand. He stopped dead in the doorway and Cas watched his reaction play out through a hidden peep-hole. The hunter's confusion turned into a wide grin. He set down his haul and shucked his jacket. It didn't take him long to find the door. His face poked through the blankets and he spied Cas curled up in one of their many blanket-chairs.

"Dude! You made a fort? This is sweet." He edged further inside.

"Do you like it?" Cas asked.

"Like it? This is fucking awesome!" Dean crawled about the fort, exploring the various rooms and testing every article of furniture in the place. He returned from his reconnaissance mission and grinned at Cas.

Sam returned to the motel room, having gone to retrieve a soda. As he walked through the door, he saw the half eaten burger and booze on the table. He looked over at the blanket fort and saw sections of it strategically collapsing. He then realized exactly what he had walked in on. He kicked himself for not noticing sooner. It had certainly happened enough—why didn't he just stay away? Sam turned around and exited the motel room, leaving Cas and Dean to break in—or break down—the blanket fort by themselves.


	43. Cas' First Head Cold

Dean lounged in front of the TV, beer in hand and lazily flicking through a car magazine. His heart wasn't really in any of the activities he was taking part in. Instead, his mind was on Cas. He hadn't seen the angel for several days and it was beginning to worry him. Chick flick-y as it was, Dean wished the angel would make a guest appearance just so he'd know he was okay.

He rolled his eyes. This was getting bad.

On cue, Cas appeared.

"Cas! Where you been, man?"

The angel took a step closer to Dean and the hunter thought that perhaps the angel had been in a nasty fight. "Dean," he pleaded. "I duh no unberstanb."

"What? What happened to you?" He inched forward and saw a healthy stream of snot pouring from Castiel's nose. His eyes were puffy and he looked as though he was suffering a terrible hangover.

"My nodtrils are mudinying."

"Stop talking. Hang on." Dean went to the bathroom and grabbed a handful of toilet paper. He pressed it against Cas' nose. "Blow," he commanded.

"Whad?"

"Come on, through your nose. Blow."

The angel grudgingly obeyed. The sound of large amounts of snot being excised from one's head filled the room and Dean grimaced. "Haven't you ever seen someone with a cold? You're supposed to blow that shit out before it starts dripping down your face."

"I feel much bedder now. Thand you, Dean."

The hunter nodded and disposed of the wad of snotty tissue. When he returned, he saw the angel had gone from simply being stuffed up to having a complete emotional breakdown. Tears streamed down his face and he sucked in a shuddering breath.

"No!" Dean protested. "Don't cry, your nose will start running again."

"I don understad why my face is doing this do me!" he wailed. "I took sucd good care of id. I even pud on moisturizer—I know you don Dean, bud the lady on the delevision told me do!"

Dean peered at Cas for a moment, nearly disbelieving what he had just confessed but reminding himself that it was Cas. Of course he used moisturizer. He shook his head and pulled the angel in for a hug. When the worst of his sobs had subsided, Dean manhandled him into one of the beds. He tucked him in and brought the whole roll of toilet paper into the main room.

"When your nose starts running again, take some of this and get rid of the snot, yeah?"

Cas nodded.

"Alright, I'll be back."

"Where are dou goind?"

"To the store, to get you some cough medicine. Here, watch TV. Don't move."

"Oday. Thank dou, Dean."

He took another look at Cas and winced. "Yeah, I'll be back soon."

Back from his trip, Dean sat on the edge of the bed and measured out the allotted dosage for the cough syrup. "Okay, this is going to taste gross, but drink it. It'll help."

Castiel obeyed. The two men waited patiently. Half an hour later, nothing had happened. Dean peered at the bottle, then at Castiel. It had taken an entire liquor store to get the angel drunk and an entire bottle of aspirin to cure the hangover. What could little bit of cough syrup do? He handed Cas the entire bottle. "Drink."

Another hour passed and Cas was still sniffling and dripping like a faucet. Dean gave him another bottle of the medicine.

Three bottles later Cas was whacked out of his gourd, but on the path to being cured. The angel would occasionally mumble incoherent nothings to himself, but Dean largely ignored him. He watched the television mindlessly, keeping an eye on Cas. Suddenly, Cas—who had been previously slouched on the bed beside Dean—sat bolt upright. He turned on Dean and fixed him with a determined glare.

"I find your face disturbing," he said.

Dean stared at him. "Okay… never had anyone say that before."

"It's too healthy."

"Healthy?"

"Yes. My own face is mutinying against me and yet you remain untouched. It angers me."

"My face angers you… because yours is mutinying. You do know it's not mutiny, right? It's a cold, Cas. Everyone gets them."

"Yet I have one and you do not. How curious."

"Cas. You're high on cough syrup."

"No. I will take no more of this." Abruptly, the angel crawled to the foot of the bed, stretching out so his feet were at the headboard. He tugged the comforter out from underneath Dean and wrapped himself up.

"I'm sorry," he said. He spoke to Dean's foot rather than his face. "I don't mean to be cruel, but it's just unfair that your face should be so well composed while mine wreaks havoc. I cannot abide it any longer. Henceforth, I shall have relations with your foot."

Dean was at a loss for words.

Cas didn't give him time to answer. The angel's head slumped against the mattress and soon he was snoring contentedly. Dean turned back to the TV, trying to ignore how abnormal a simple head cold could be when Cas was involved.

Sometime later, Cas awoke with a start. He seized Dean's sock clad foot by the ankle and stared at it intently. "I have decided recently," he slurred, "That you need to embrace the world of mathematical knowledge more thoroughly. You need to absorb more knowledge on the—" Before Cas could finish his sentence, his body went limp and he began snoring.

Dean rolled his eyes. Of course, cough syrup makes angels narcoleptic. How silly of him to forget. A moment later, Cas was awake again.

"Subject of Quantum Mechanics," he continued. "See, the thing to understand about them—"

Again, Castiel passed out midsentence. A few minutes later, he was back with the world of the conscious. "But maybe you don't really want to know about that. How about the meaning of life? As an angel, I've always known, but maybe as a human you have—"

Dean soon learned to tune him out.

An hour or two later, Sam returned from an outing to the library. He stared at Dean and Cas for a long moment. The situation was rather odd. Dean was sprawled on the bed, remote in hand and nursing a beer. Cas was lying on the bed as well, but in the opposite direction. The entire bottom corner of the bedspread was wet—a saliva stain? Periodically, Cas lifted his head and proceeded to mumble something incoherent to Dean's foot.

"Alright," Sam said. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not, but it's not what you think," Dean said.

"Sure." Sam didn't bother waiting for further explanation. He gathered his things and went back to the library.


	44. Eat the Tomato, Dean

Dean sat at the motel table, inhaling a burger. The tomatoes from said burger lay with the discarded wrapper, unwanted. Castiel took note of this and became rather alarmed. He could abide by Dean's horrid eating habits so long as the hunter ate all of the meager healthy food that came with his greasy burgers. That meant the tomatoes had to be consumed.

Resolved to help Dean in whatever way he could, Cas marched over to the hunter and waited for his presence to be acknowledged. It didn't take long.

"Need something, Cas?" Dean mumbled around a mouthful of burger.

"You must eat the tomatoes, Dean."

"No way, man. They're all mushy and gross."

"Eat the tomatoes, Dean. They are one of your few sources of healthy food."

"You're kidding."

"I am not. Eat the tomatoes."

Dean set his burger down and glared defiantly at Cas. "No."

A few minutes later, Sam came back from the store. When he walked into the room, he found a chair overturned and a half eaten burger sitting on the table. Dean was sprawled on the floor and Castiel was perched upon his chest. As Sam watched, Cas held up a slice of tomato and dangled it over Dean's face.

"Eat the tomato," he said.

Dean glared murderously at Castiel but ate the tomato. Sam turned around and left.


	45. Leaf Smiting

**A/N: Heads up: For more mature audiences check out our new story, The Smutty Clouds of Heaven.**

It was fucking cold. Dean hated the cold. If he had his way, he would be inside with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other while he mindlessly watched reruns of _Dr. Sexy, MD_. But no; instead he had been kicked out of the house by a crotchety Bobby and told to rake the leaves up in the yard. Dean wasn't sure why Bobby wanted the yard raked. He owned a scrap yard, for Christ's sake. It didn't exactly matter how free of leaves the yard was when there were piles of rusting cars stacked higher than the house itself. But still, Bobby was like a father to Dean. Dean obeyed his fathers, no matter how misguided they may be. It was how he found himself outside, in the cold and raking leaves.

Obediently, as only a good son would, he dragged the damned rake across the grass and gathered the leaves. As he raked, he noticed that the rotten leaves—the kind often found at the bottom of the pile and not at all conducive to jumping into—looked rather like the gunk left over after Cas smote something. He grinned to himself, his mood marginally lightened.

But half an hour later, Dean's semi-humor had long worn off. His fingers were beginning to freeze around the rake handle and the hunter knew that if he didn't finish soon, his hands would never be the same. It was a legitimate concern for Dean and he came up with a perfectly legitimate solution.

"Cas!"

Moments later, the infernal leaves were reduced to smoldering piles of ash. Dean clapped the angel on the back in congratulations. "You're a lifesaver, Cas."

"Thank you, Dean."

The next day, the Winchesters and Castiel were in the Impala and heading toward their next hunt. As they drove along the highway, Sam glanced out the window and his face lit up.

"It's a Nissan Leaf," he said.

"Poor excuse for a car if you ask me," Dean snorted.

"They're eco-friendly, Dean. You know, they actually try to help the environment rather than killing it by driving around in a car that gets five miles to the gallon."

"Nine, thank you. He didn't mean it, baby." Dean patted the dashboard consolingly. "And I don't care if they're eco-friendly. They're ugly as hell."

Sam rolled his eyes and gave up. Cas, meanwhile, had heard the entire exchange from his vantage in the backseat. An idea began to form in his mind as he recalled his conversation with Dean the previous day while the hunter had been raking leaves. Dean had asked Cas to smite the leaves. The car was a leaf. The progression was natural in Castiel's mind.

From that moment onward, chaos ensued. It rained down heavily upon the heads of unsuspecting environmentalists as their Nissan Leafs spontaneously began to combust. The news was at a loss to explain the bizarre phenomenon. Terror ran rampant. People began to fear their environmentally friendly cars. The Leaf terror began to spread to the Toyota Prius. Sales plummeted as more and more people's Leafs began to spontaneously melt and crumple. The plight of environmentally friendly cars seemed to abate and classic car owners the world over breathed a sigh of relief. The Winchesters read about the strange phenomenon from the safety of their motel room. Dean grinned as he finished reading the latest story about melting Leafs.

Castiel appeared, looking rather smug with himself. He stood expectantly before Dean.

"What's up, angel?"

"Are you satisfied, Dean?"

"What?"

"Are you satisfied? The leaves, I smote them."

"What do you mean you 'smote the leaves', Cas?" Dean's brow furrowed as a connection began to form in his mind. "Wait, the Nissan Leafs that are melting and… that was you?"

The angel nodded triumphantly. "Of course, Dean. You asked me to smite the leaves."

Dean burst into laughter as Sam huddled in the corner, a small part of him dying inside.


	46. Hair in the Ear

"Cas, your hair is in my ear" Dean murmured.

"My apologies" the angel replied.


	47. A Cas Sandwich

Sam neared the motel room, keys in hand. From within, a strange set of noises emanated. Sam paused a moment, listening.

"Ah! Help!" Cas yelled.

Sam heard Dean laughing uncontrollably.

"This isn't funny, Dean! I'm stuck! My ass…"

Dean continued to laugh.

"Dean, hurry!"

"Eww," Dean said. "It's all slippery."

More laughter ensued and Sam decided that he really didn't want to enter the motel room. As he turned to leave a series of grunts and various other cries could be heard. Sam wasted no time getting as far away from the room as possible.

Meanwhile, _inside_ the motel room…

Dean had a firm grasp of Cas' arm, pulling as hard as he could. The angel, wedged between the motel bed and the wall, did not move.

The angel yelped as he struggled to get any leverage to push himself out. "Help!"

Dean couldn't help it. He laughed. It was too funny. It had started innocently enough with Cas asserting that Dean didn't watch enough educational television. He had flipped the TV to the NASA station and forced Dean to watch as the space station crawled across the screen. It simply floated… and floated and floated, occasionally beeping. Before long Dean could take no more. Having made an impromptu lunge for the remote, he sent the angel rolling off the edge of the bed. Tangled in the covers as he was, Cas had no room to move. Dean's beer went with the angel, spilling across the floor. It was how Dean found himself standing on the bed, short of breath as he tried to simultaneously control his laughter and lever Cas up.

"This isn't funny, Dean," Cas hissed. "I'm stuck! My ass… is stuck." As Dean continued to laugh and halfheartedly pull Cas, the angel became more frustrated. "Dean, hurry."

The hunter jumped down from the bed, going for Cas' feet. He set a bare foot on the tiled motel floor and stepped back to avoid the large puddle of spilt beer. "Eww," he said. "It's all slippery."

It was Cas' turn to laugh at Dean's misfortune. Unbeknownst to the two, Sam quietly slid away from the motel in fear. Inside, they continued attempts to free Cas. Dean eventually slid the mattress away and the angel crawled out, less than dignified.


	48. Serenade a la Castiel

Castiel was becoming increasingly frustrated with Dean. No matter his efforts, the hunter refused to leave the motel room and accompany the angel.

"Dean, come with me."

"Not right now, Cas. We just finished a hunt and I'm tired. Humans need sleep, remember?"

"But Dean…"

"Come on, Cas," the hunter begged. He rolled over on the bed. "Just give me a few hours."

The angel sighed wearily, far from admitting defeat. He stood for a moment, silent and in deep thought. An idea struck him. Parting his lips, he began to sing.

Dean sprang into motion, hands covering his ears as his face twisted into a pain induced grimace. The hunter shouted something but it was lost in the commotion. The unmistakable sound of fracturing glass filled the room and Dean's eyes widened as he saw the mirror above his bed begin to crack. He ducked. The mirror shattered and descended upon the hunter's prone body with an almighty crash. Dean swore loudly in the aftermath. Cas, effectively silenced and deeply apologetic, rushed to his side. Dean's arms, face, neck—any exposed part of flesh—were covered in razor thin cuts. Shards of glass stuck to his hands and rested in his hair. It was a mess.

Privately, Cas acknowledged that perhaps his pitch had been a bit off. In silent amends, he touched his fingers to Dean's forehead. Healed and free of the glass shards, the hunter fell asleep. Castiel left him, intent upon returning the next day for another try.

As he intended, Castiel returned the next day. Dean was still sleeping, flopped gracelessly on the motel bed and snoring lightly. The angel neared and nudged his shoulder. Predictably, Dean brushed his hand away and rolled over. Cas tried again. Once more, he was rejected.

"Leammie 'lone," Dean mumbled.

Still, Cas persisted.

Sensing his annoyer wasn't leaving anytime soon, Dean opened a bleary eye. "Cas? What're you doing? I was sleeping."

"Dean, I need you to come with me."

"Mmno. I'm going back to sleep. Day off."

"Dean, please."

"Nope. Night, Cassy."

As he had the previous day, Cas began to sing. Dean bolted upright, eyes wide. He stared at Castiel in a mix of confusion and anger. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Serenading you, Dean."

"Would you stop?" Dean covered his ears and winced.

Cas did as asked. "You dislike my singing?"

"Uh, the pitch is a bit high. Like exploding eardrums high. Tone it down."

"My apologies. I shall begin again."

"Again? What do you mean—"

Cas put Dean to sleep. He would try again the next day.

The third day ended much as the first and second had. Castiel inevitably hit the wrong pitch. Met with failure and an uncomfortable Dean, he ceded defeat. Returning for yet another try the fourth day, he was met with an entirely different result.

Dean sat at the motel table, surfing the web out of boredom and pretending to do research for their next hunt. Castiel stood in the middle of the room, facing Dean with his mouth agape and a blank expression plastered across his face. Dean chalked it up to yet another weird angel thing. He ignored Cas easily enough. What he couldn't ignore was the incessant barking of what had to be hundreds of dogs. They sounded close enough to be right outside the door. They howled, yowled and barked in earnest. With each passing moment Dean grew closer and closer to homicide.

After an hour, he could stand it no longer. He stood, grabbing his Colt 1911 and a shotgun for good measure. He made for the door, passing Cas.

"I'll be back."

"Where are you going?" the angel asked.

If Dean didn't know better, the angel almost sounded broken. Dean ignored it. "I'm going outside to shoot those fucking dogs for some peace and quiet."

Cas paused. "Do you not like my singing?"

The hunter turned on him. "That's you? What the hell are you doing?"

"I am singing. You said the pitch was wrong. I am trying a new pitch."

"I don't hear anything." Dean was purely curious now.

"Oh." Cas looked down. "I shall stop."

Almost immediately the tortured howling of the dogs stopped and Dean sighed in relief. "Thank fucking God! You," he jabbed a finger at Cas. "No more singing."

Castiel nodded, but had an agenda of his own. He would try yet again. Dean soon slumped onto the bed, asleep.

It took the angel another two days of failed attempts to finally find the correct pitch. Cas had never realized how hard it was to match the pitch of a Rock and Roll singer. It was a specific baritone, one very different from the soprano melodies common in Heaven. Nevertheless, Cas persevered and eventually found his mark.

Dean's ears perked at the opening chords to Metallica's Welcome Home (Sanitarium). He glanced about, confused as to the source. It wasn't his phone. It wasn't the computer he was using. His eyes landed on Cas. The angel stood in the center of the room, mouth agape and brows drawn together. It looked as though the angel was concentrating intensely. Slowly, Dean stood and walked over to him. As he neared the music grew louder. It was coming from _Cas_.

"Cas? Are you doing that?"

Still the music continued and the angel merely nodded in consent.

"Why?"

Castiel began to walk toward the door, Metallica still pouring eerily from his mouth. Dean followed.

Privately, Castiel jumped for joy. He had finally managed to get the pitch correct and Dean was following him! He drew the hunter from the hotel room and into another, separate room. It was one he booked himself to spare Sam any discomfort.

The song ended and Dean stood in the room, dumbfounded. "How did you do that?"

"I am an angel of the Lord. Singing is a natural ability."

Dean neared, eyes full of wonder. "That was so awesome."

"I wanted you to come with me, Dean."

"What?"

"I wanted to bring you here."

"So you lured me with Metallica? That's actually… really smart."

The angel nodded in earnest.

"But why?"

"Sam appears extremely uncomfortable with our relationship when it progresses to physical levels."

Dean grinned. "Planning a weekend alone, eh Cas? I'm up for that." He drew Castiel in by his lapels and kissed him.


	49. With a Herring!

The credits for _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ rolled across the screen. Cas watched them with little interest, an idea already forming in his head after watching the movie. He wasted little time in leaving a note for Dean and leaving the motel room. Just beyond the parking lot, a sporadic forest grew. It would do for his purposes. Resolute, Cas stalked into the greenery.

Two hours after Cas had left on his adventure, Dean came back to the motel room. A bundle of clean clothes in his arms, having come from the Laundromat, he was rather preoccupied and didn't immediately notice Cas' note. He found it soon enough, rolling his eyes as he read it:

_I am in the forest, Dean._

"Real descriptive, Cas. Thanks," Dean muttered. He left the motel room to find the angel.

It took him longer than he expected to find Cas. He was deep inside the small forest. His tan trench coat made him easy to spot, but it took more than a few minutes of fruitless searching for Dean to spot him. He found Cas standing at the base of a rather large tree. The angel was hitting the trunk with something. It looked like he was trying to chop it down, but Dean could see no damage to the tree. As the hunter drew near, he hardly believed his eyes. He checked his watch. It was only 11:00 a.m. There was no way he could be this drunk already.

"Cas? What the hell are you doing?"

The angel continued striking the tree with what Dean now knew to be a small fish. "I am trying to cut down the mightiest tree in the forest with a herring, Dean."

Dean watched him beat the trunk with the fish for a moment. He noticed the mauled corpses of perhaps a dozen other herrings lying at Cas' feet. "Uh-huh. Why?"

"The Knights of Ni decreed it. I shall succeed where King Arthur failed."

"Cas?"

"Yes, Dean."

"Have _you_ been drinking?"

"Of course not. I have not indulged since the liquor store."

"Okay. But, what are you doing?"

Cas ceased beating the tree with the herring. "The Knights of Ni, Dean. They wished King Arthur to cut down the mightiest tree in the forest with a herring. He failed. I shall not."

"No, I get that. What I don't get is why?"

Cas heaved an exasperated sigh and Dean took a step back, unused to exasperation on Cas. "King Arthur…" he began again.

"I know that!" Dean cut him off. "Where the hell did you get this whacko idea?"

"Oh. The movie."

"What movie?"

"_Monty Python and the Holy Grail_."

Dean ran a tired hand over his face and through his hair. "Cas. Cas! Stop beating the tree with the dead fish. It's impossible."

"But the movie…"

"No." Dean grabbed the fish and dropped it to the ground. The herring joined his decimated brethren. "Come on." He lead the angel back to the motel. "From now on, you're not allowed to watch TV unless Sam's with you, or I'm with you, got it?"

Cas nodded dejectedly. One day he would succeed. One day he would show Dean and King Arthur both that it was possible. He would not accept defeat.


	50. Vulcan Neck Pinch

Dean struggled with the demon, trying to punch it to death after having lost his knife. He wasn't making much headway. The demon's hands around his throat weren't helping, slowly turning his vision blurry. With a hefty shove, he managed to throw the thing to the side. It was on its feet before he had caught his breath. Dean knew he was in for a world of pain.

Cas appeared behind the demon. His pale fingers rested at the base of the demon's neck, pinching just above the collar bone. The demon's went limp, falling to the ground with a thump.

"Holy shit, Cas!" Dean said, clapping the angel on the back. "That was awesome. You're like Spock!"

"What is a Spock?"

"Vulcan? From _Star Trek_?"

"I do not understand."

"Nevermind. Let's go."


	51. Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

Cas returned to the motel room with dinner mere minutes later. Dean appreciated his promptness and immediately seized the bags of takeout. He grabbed his burger, unwrapped it and took a monstrous bite. Rumbling adamantly only moments before, his stomach quieted as it was sated with food. Dean ate his burger contentedly, a lazy grin plastered across his face.

But wait… something was missing.

The second bite he took was okay, but something seemed off. By the fourth bite, Dean had figured out the problem. He turned to Cas.

"Dude, I said extra onions."

The angel peered at him over his own hamburger. "Are there not onions on it?"

"Yeah," Dean allowed. "But I wanted more. That's the point of extra onions—_extra_."

"How strange," Cas replied. "I was sure to ask the burger man for extra onions."

"Dean," Sam cut in. "It's just a burger. It has onions on it. Eat it."

"Easy for you to say, Ms. Chicken Salad with a Diet Coke. Your whole meal tastes like cardboard. The cheeseburger, on the other hand, is a perfect combination of beef, cheese, pickles, lettuce, tomatoes and _extra onions_." At Sam's exasperated look, Dean rolled his eyes. "I don't expect you to understand, calorie-counter boy."

"I don't count calories!"

"Whatever. The point is, I'm missing my extra onions."

"Dean," the angel cut in.

"Yeah, Cas?"

"I have a confession to make."

"… Okay. Shoot."

"I told a lie. It wasn't the burger man's fault, it was mine. I forgot to ask for extra onions." Cas refused to look at Dean, keeping his gaze stoutly focused on his hamburger. The strange and foreign feeling of guilt was overwhelming him. It was unpleasant and the reason behind his confession.

"Why did you lie, Cas?" Sam asked. The angel wasn't one to lie.

"I wanted to see what it felt like."

Dean raised an eyebrow, taking in the angel's obvious guilt. "It's no biggie, Cas. People make mistakes all the time."

"Really?" The look of hope in Cas' eyes was almost heartbreaking.

"Uh, yeah. Forget it. Eat your food."

When the angel had recovered from his obvious guilt, Sam rolled his eyes and glared at Dean. "'People make mistakes all the time?'" he parroted. "You never forgive me when I forget your pie!"

"Forgetting pie is a whole other ball game, Sammy. Nobody forgets my pie."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."


	52. Bollywood Fever

Dean was becoming seriously worried about Cas. Since the angel's unfortunate discovery of Bollywood, he had developed an unhealthy obsession with dancing. He twirled around their motel rooms, pelvic-thrusted his way through hunts and dipped, slid and sashayed his way everywhere else. He watched the movies unceasingly, upright and glued to the TV as he memorized and practiced the endless dance numbers that flitted across the screen.

It started innocuously—albeit annoyingly—enough. Dean could ignore the constant dancing. Sometimes they just left Cas behind on hunts. It made everything easier. But when Cas got it in his head that he needed a dance _partner_… well...

Cas quickstepped across the room, coming to a breathy halt before Dean. He had the hunter in his grasp and was twirling him away before Dean realized what was happening. The motel room lost detail as he was flung about. Castiel threw him into dips, spun him around and pressed up against him with smoldering intensity only to gyrate away a moment later. Dean absorbed the whole ordeal with a detached sort of confusion. He couldn't tell if he felt threatened or turned on.

He found himself forced back onto the motel bed. He watched with rapt attention as Cas practically pole danced before his eyes. Dean had complained about the lack of sex in Bollywood movies, but they more than made up for it with their dancing. Cas' movement were fluid and heated. His eyes were hooded, a seductive smile plastered across his face.

Maybe Bollywood wasn't so bad.


	53. The Great Cheeseburger Crusade

It was a epic battle to end all epic battles, to be sure. It required precision, stamina, finesse and above all: dedication.

Oh yes.

Castiel was trying to keep Dean from a double bacon cheeseburger (with extra onions).

The angel had his hunter's health at the forefront of his mind. Like a shimmering beacon in the night, like his personal north star, Cas clung to the prospect of Dean's ideal health with fervent, desperate hands. He wanted the man to be healthy. Cas didn't understand why Dean didn't share his sentiments. Daily, the hunter clogged his arteries with bacon cheeseburgers. Castiel listened to the shrieks of Dean's liver as he drowned it in beer and Jack Daniel's. Castiel realized that Dean's lifestyle kept him fit—running from/chasing demons and ghosts daily tended to burn calories. But it was the principle of the matter that ate away at the angel like acid.

Dean's body was beautiful. How could he treat it with such disdain?

It was with such thoughts in mind that Cas launched his crusade to save Dean. It wouldn't be easy by any stretch—Dean was a man in touch with his vices. But the angel knew he would succeed. He had to. Dean's life was ultimately depending on it… sort of.

**Attempt 1: Appeal to the Hunter Within **

Dean was sprawled on the motel bed and eating his beloved double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions. Cas popped into the room and Dean greeted him through a mouthful of burger.

"I have news, Dean," Cas said.

"Yeah? What about?"

"I have… caught the wind of a hunt, as you say."

"Where?"

"Abandon your cheese sandwich and I will show you."

Dean shot him a patronizing look. "Dude, it's a cheeseburger. And no way am I leaving it to get cold. Multitasking is my middle name."

The comment threw Cas for a loop and he momentarily forgot his purpose. "Your parents must have been confused when they christened you."

"It's a joke, Cas. Now come on. Out with it, angel boy. Where's the hunt?"

Castiel prepared to reiterate his want of Dean to abandon his lunch, but soon saw that the hunter had finished the burger. Only moments before, half had remained. It was now gone. "Where has the rest of your cheese thing gone?" he asked, broken.

"… I finished it." Dean gave him a weird look. "You okay?"

"No. I am not." Cas disappeared without another word.


	54. The Great Cheeseburger Crusade, Part 2

**Attempt 2: Sex Appeal**

Armed with an arsenal of knowledge of Dean's kinks and turn on's, Cas entered the motel room. Sam was gone. He had made sure the younger Winchester was occupied elsewhere. Free of distraction, he turned his attention to the task at hand: separating Dean and his beloved cheeseburger.

"Dean."

"Hey, Cas. What's up?" Dean paused and took a sip of beer. He gathered up his burger and resumed eating. His attention was loosely focused on the angel, the majority of it being taken up by his lunch and the rerun of _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ playing on the television.

"Look at me, Dean."

Dean glanced up only to find a pair of chapped and familiar lips pressed against his own. He smiled against Cas' lips and promptly dropped his cheeseburger in favor of wiping his hands across his jeans and burying them in the angel's hair. He deepened the kiss, pulling Cas into his lap and allowing his hands to wander.

Suddenly, the adamant growling of Dean's stomach filled the room and he paused. He grinned at Cas apologetically.

"Hold that thought," he said. He reached for the scant half that remained of his burger.

"But Dean…" Cas whined. He nibbled at the hunter's ear, dropping kisses down his tanned neck and pausing to nuzzle at his collarbone.

"Just one sec. My stomach will never shut up otherwise." He practically inhaled the burger, for all the time it took him to eat the rest of it. He licked his lips free of an errant blob of ketchup and turned to press scorching kisses to Cas' jaw. "Now, where were we?"

"I have an appointment to keep," Cas said abruptly. He left Dean frustrated and without sexual release as punishment.


	55. The Great Cheeseburger Crusade, Part 3

**Attempt 3: Ambush**

Castiel spied his pray within the bowels of the motel room. He sat at the battered table, burger in hand and mouth poised to take a bite. Cas wasted no time.

Heart in his throat, he sprang.

Double bacon cheeseburger in one hand, remote in the other and an ice cold beer on the sidelines, Dean was happy. He took a bite. Delicious flavors exploded in his mouth: distinct cheddar, the juicy beef patty and the salty goodness of the bacon. The subtle tang of the onions finished it off, made it heavenly. He sighed contentedly.

Suddenly, his happiness was shattered. The door burst inward in a shower of splinters. A figure darted into the room. Horns? Dean thought he saw horns, and perhaps fangs. He had no idea what could have found them, but it didn't matter. Shoot first and ask questions later. He wasted no time drawing his gun. He stood and prepared to take aim only to fall to his knees as his rather sizeable bite of burger lodged in his throat. Eyes wide, he pounded his chest desperately, swallowing and futilely trying to clear his airway. Gun and assailant forgotten, he flailed as his vision began to darken. Dean was no stranger to near strangulation. It was an unpleasant experience. Nonetheless, its trademark darkness swooped down upon him and he collapsed.

Cas watched in shock as Dean fell to his knees. The hunter was making a series of bizarre gestures, hands fluttering around his throat as if something was stuck in it.

Oh. The angel realized what was wrong just as Dean collapsed. He checked the hunter's pulse and found it still. While Cas _had_ kept Dean from his bacon cheeseburger, killing him seemed counterproductive. Cas removed his devil's Halloween mask, dropping it in the trash can. He touched his fingers to Dean's forehead, reviving the poor man.


	56. The Great Cheeseburger Crusade, Part 4

After his third failure, Castiel accepted that perhaps defeat was determined to slap him in the face no matter his efforts. Dean's death had not been his goal. And after his last attempt had gone so erroneously, Cas looked upon his cause with a new sense of futility. Bitterness resting on his tongue, he ceded defeat.

It would seem that Dean and his double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions were inseparable. Resistance was futile. And so, with a heavy heart, Castiel resigned himself to many more days of watching Dean devour his poisonous delicacy.

Dean, to his credit, did notice Castiel's change in mood. The hunter would swear that anytime he picked up a burger, Cas seemed to bristle. The angel's eyes gave new meaning to 'shooting daggers'.

Weird.


	57. A Piano for the Morris, Please

**A/N: Once again, if you don't watch **_**TopGear**_** you are a silly person and probably won't understand this chapter. **

Castiel, notoriously confused angel of the Lord, sat before the television. He watched the screen with a waning, mild interest. Television did not hold his attention so wholly as other activities, but he supposed it filled a purpose. That purpose being to while away the hours and stave off boredom—which it did. Already he had killed an hour in what seemed to be a significantly shorter amount of time. If Cas was more ignorant (and less angelic by default) he might suspect the television of altering time. The finesse with which it ate away the hours was uncanny, if a mite suspicious.

He glanced at the clock. Yet another hour had passed. He continued watching TV, his chosen pastime while awaiting the return of the Winchesters. They did not know he awaited them. They were currently preoccupied with an average salt and burn. But, as he had learned through past mistakes, it was unwise to disturb them while the two worked. So Cas waited.

The program on the television changed as he switched the channel. He 'surfed', as Dean called it. Castiel considered it a bizarre usage of the verb 'surf'. His track record with understanding human customs, however, wasn't spotless. As such, Castiel accepted the strange vernacular without complaint.

On yet another channel Cas recognized the program as one Dean often watched. It focused primarily upon automotives, with considerable time devoted to the shenanigans perpetrated by the three British hosts. Dean seemed to enjoy it. Thus Castiel decided to watch it, once again using Dean's interests as a template for his own.

An hour later Cas emerged knowledgeable about a select bunch of cars and fostering the impression that all Morris Marinas were destined to be squashed by pianos. It happened frequently in the show. The hosts even acknowledged that it rained pianos at their test track—where the Morris had been parked. Hence, the squishing. Cas thought it slightly strange that it should rain pianos. He didn't recall such an occurrence as being common for British weather. Again drawing from his past experiences, however, Castiel knew that most of his assumptions about human life seemed to be wrong. So he didn't question the Brit's logic or strange weather.

Pianos were meant to fall on and crush Morris Marinas. Castiel knew there were still uncrushed Morris Marinas in existence. He took it upon himself to rectify the imbalance.

For the next week Morris Marina owners the world over cried out in anguish as pianos unexplainably landed on their beloved cars. The _TopGear_ office was inundated with a letter of complaint and outrage.

But for the most part, the tragic days passed by in anonymity, being known only to Morris owners as the darkest days of their lives.


	58. Dr Phil

Sam sat at their room's particle board table, trying to ignore how it wobbled every time he shifted his weight. Periodically he tore his eyes from his laptop and glanced at Cas. The angel sat quietly on the end of Dean's bed, watching the TV intently. Every so often he would change the channel, but he was predominantly still.

Sam snuck a quick look at the TV. A commercial for a Jeep was playing. He turned back to his laptop, wondering when Dean would be back from his supply run.

Since the 'I am attempting to cut down the mightiest tree in the forest with a herring' incident, Dean had ruthlessly implemented television rules for Cas. Well, it was more of a simplistic, overarching single rule: no TV for Cas unless one or both of the Winchesters were in the room with him. It was Sam's turn to enforce said rule. Sure, the rule seemed foolish, but Cas had proved himself to be alarmingly susceptible to the suggestive powers of television. That being the case, Sam didn't mind babysitting if it meant they could de-complicate their lives slightly by removing the corruptive influences of Bollywood and Monty Python where Cas was concerned. An angel obsessed with song and cutting down trees with herrings was hardly a useful one.

Sam glanced at the TV again, seeing that the commercials were over. "_Dr. Phil_?" he asked when he saw what Cas was watching.

Cas didn't take his eyes from the flickering screen. "I do not understand. How does this Phil man help people? His soul is markedly dishonest."

Sam laughed. "Everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame, Cas. It's not really about getting help."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Some people just enjoy the limelight way too much."

The angel blinked. "What is this 'limelight' you speak of?" He shifted, trying to see more of the set of _Dr. Phil_. "I see no lights made of limes."  
>"Nevermind. Just… no crazy ideas, right?"<p>

"I have not been adversely influenced by _Dr. Phil_, no."

"Good." Sam turned back to his laptop. It was just _Dr. Phil_. What could it hurt?

(***)

Dean sprawled on his bed, idly channel surfing while Sam amused himself by trying to find anything hunt related in the nearby vicinity. Cas was MIA, but the Winchesters weren't expecting him and didn't think anything of it. It was a ho-hum afternoon and all parties involved were doing their best to fight off boredom and subsequently failing.

Dean changed the channel to yet another shitty daytime talk show. It took him a long moment to recognize the stuffy wood paneled and monogrammed set of _Dr. Phil_. He watched without really watching. Mind elsewhere, he absorbed the dialogue unconsciously.

"Hello and welcome to _Dr. Phil_. Today I have a very troubled guest," Dr. Phil drawled. "He came to me in confusion and ignorance of his own situation. Hopefully, by talking to us today we can shed some light on his situation and give him the help he needs. As you know, if it's happening now, we're going to deal with it now. Can you tell the audience your name, please?"

"Castiel," a deep voice answered.

Dean blinked. He definitely recognized that voice. Rubbing his eyes, he stared at the TV as if it had spontaneously begun a striptease.

"I am an angel of the Lord," Cas finished.

"Why do you say that, Castiel?" Dr. Phil asked.

"It is the truth."

Dr. Phil nodded thoughtfully, seemingly unperturbed by the insanity pouring from Cas' mouth in torrents. Dean couldn't believe his eyes. For a moment he wondered if he had fallen asleep, or was really, really, _really_ drunk. Carefully, he walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. When he emerged he stared at the TV once more, daring to hope it had all been an atrophy born illusion. No dice. Cas was still on _Dr. Phil._

"Sam."

"Yeah?" He glanced up from his computer.

"I know where Cas is."

"Where? Is he in trouble?"

Dean nodded toward the TV. Sam slowly rose from his seat and came to stand beside Dean. Dean watched his brows scamper up into his hairline when he saw Cas seated in Dr. Phil's studio.

"Is that…?"

"I don't believe it either, but yeah. That's Cas… on _Dr. Phil_."

"How the hell did he get there?"

"No freaking idea."

The Winchesters turned back to the television.

"Tell me about your relationship with Dan, Castiel," Dr. Phil said.

"His name—"

"Do you feel you're in an abusive relationship?"

Cas gave up trying to contradict Phil. "I don't," he answered.

Dr. Phil's brows knitted over the smooth squareness of his face. He readjusted his geometric frame and heaved a sigh. "Castiel, I understand your reluctance. You obviously love Dan. But when we spoke earlier you told me some very alarming things about him. Do you remember what we discussed?"

Cas blinked at Dr. Phil.

"When we spoke earlier, Castiel had the courage to confide in me. The stories he told me were nothing short of alarming. Do you remember sharing with me about the time Dan stabbed you in the neck? Do you remember that, Castiel?"

"Yes."

"Then you understand that Dan is clearly a monster. No human being should endure bodily harm at the hand of their loved one."

"It was accidental," Cas amended quickly.

"Dean?" Sam asked incredulously. "You _stabbed_ Cas? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Dean glared at his brother. "It was an accident, Sam. Come on! We were on a hunt and I was a bit jumpy and Cas snuck up behind me and…" He made a helpless stabbing motion, miming arterial spurts of blood. "Christ. How does Cas even know who Dr. Phil is anyway?" Dean's gaze settled on Sam. "It was your turn to watch him."

Sam had the good grace to look guilty.

"Damn it, Sam. There are reasons I said '_watch him_'. He gets these whacky ideas and just goes cuckoo for cocoa puffs!"

"At least I'm not the abusive boyfriend he's being counseled for."

Dean gave him the finger and turned back to the TV. Dr. Phil had his hand on Castiel's shoulder. Dean clenched his fists, wanting to punch the assertive asshole into next week.

"It's okay, Castiel," Dr. Phil soothed. "I know how things are. Dan blames you for everything and soon you begin to believe him. But you need to know that it's not your fault. Do you hear me, Castiel? It's not your fault."

Cas turned his soul-searching stare on Dr. Phil. "Glenn Dobbs wishes you to know he feels no resentment toward you."

Dr. Phil grew quiet, his stocky frame becoming suddenly motionless. "Excuse me?"

"Glenn Dobbs wishes you to know he feels no resentment toward you," Cas repeated. "He made peace and granted absolution shortly before his death."

"What?"

"Glenn Dobbs—"

"I heard you!" Dr. Phil cried. He seemed to crumple in upon himself. His eyes crawled up to the ceiling, shining with unshed tears. "Glenn… I'm so sorry. That game… we lost so horribly. It wasn't on purpose! You were still the best football coach I ever had!"

"Whoa," Dean murmured, watching the television intently. "Dr. Phil just got mindfucked."

"What?" Sam demanded.

"Do you know nothing of your cultural heritage?" Dean demanded. "Glenn Dobbs is part of the College Football Hall of Fame. He coached U of Tulsa. Obviously Dr. Phil knows him."

"Why is Cas brining up a famous football coach?"

"Cause he's awkward and that's what he does. Thought that stripper would've taught him a lesson but apparently Cas' learning curve is nonexistent."

"Stripper?" Sam rolled his eyes. Of course his brother would take an _angel_ to a strip club.

Dean grinned. "Had to be there, Sammy."

On the television, Cas abruptly stood.

Dean knew that look on the angel's face. "No," he said. "Don't do it, Cas."

Cas did it. He disappeared in the blink of an eye and Dean's mind automatically supplied the rustling of wings when his ears failed him. The audience let out a collective gasp of horror and the studio dissolved into mild, studio chaos. Audience members began chattering and whispering excitedly. Production assistants and camera crew alike began wandering around the studio, searching for their wayward guest. PA's nattered on screeching walkie-talkies. Dr. Phil sat useless, curled in upon himself and alternately sobbing and calling apologies and amends to Glenn Dobbs.

"Best episode of _Dr. Phil_ I've ever seen," Dean said.

(***)

The next day, lesser news articles the world over were overflowing with bogus explanations as to the identity of the mystery man who had simultaneously managed to be a victim of abuse, a raging lunatic and cause a complete psychological breakdown in Dr. Phil. Some regarded him as a hero, others as a delusional nut job. It was all over _Weekly World News_. Dean couldn't help but grin whenever he saw an issue in a gas mart. Oh yeah, Cas was just that awesome. But no more television for the angel. Seriously.

(***)

**A/N: The year Dr. Phil (aka Phil McGraw) played football for University of Tulsa they lost to U of Houston 100-6. It's one of the most unbalanced games in football history. Glenn Dobbs was the team's coach at the time.**


	59. Wo Ai Ni!

Sam observed the two with practiced ease. It was entertaining, to watch Dean and Cas. At times he almost felt like he was intruding on some elaborate courtship between Cas and his brother. But Dean was practically oblivious so it was more of an elaborate, _one sided_ courtship. Regardless, it was still entertaining.

Cas, for his part, had been completely reduced to a giggling schoolgirl that reminded Sam way too much of the cartoon smut Dean favored and the decidedly less porny Manga Jess used to read. The angel would sneak constant looks at Dean, adoration shining from his dewy eyes like laser beams. Sam imagined tiny floating red hearts fluttering around the angel's head whenever he gazed upon Dean.

One day Sam caught the angel mumbling Asian phrases. After a headache inducing hour with Google Translate, Sam had determined it to be Chinese. An idea popped into his head and he knew they were all doomed. He'd seen Taiwanese dramas before (because Jess had watched them. Not because Sam did… no. Not at all). Anyway, they were filled with unrequited love-angst, made all the more frustrating and unfulfilled by Taiwanese customs and prudishness. The two dots connected in Sam's head: Cas' strange behavior and the Taiwanese dramas. The more he thought about it, the more similarities he saw between the two. It was near scary, how like the dramas' female leads Cas had become.

To make matters worse, Dean was just as oblivious to Cas' affections as any male lead in the dramas themselves. Sam knew his brother realized something was up, but Dean was nothing if not a master at compartmentalization. He astutely chalked Cas' eccentricities up to zaniness, filed everything under that same category and moved on. Sam was cursed to have his attention constantly divided, though he had to admit it was kind of funny to watch Cas try and woo Sir No-Chick-Flicks with the coquettish and over-feminized mannerisms of a Taiwanese drama character.

Alright, it was downright hilarious.

And Sam, cursed as he was with foresight, knew it was going to get worse when Cas eventually talked his now pathologically shy self into confessing his feelings to Dean.

Sure enough, Sam's prediction came true a mere two days later.

The brothers were in a bar, relaxing after a hunt gone well. Sam may have earned himself a broken knuckle and a few scratches, Dean likewise and a cracked rib, but it was on par with their definition of a successful hunt. On par with the aftermath of said successful hunt, Dean was loitering at the bar and chatting up the local women. Sam barely contained the urge to roll his eyes as he watched Dean give the two women yet another bogus story about being a talent agent from LA. Sam wasn't sure if he was more disappointed in Dean for using such lame pickup lines or the girls for falling for them. Regardless, he sipped his beer quietly, simply enjoying the moment of normalcy.

The door to the bar opened, ushering in a gust of frigid Minnesota air and a very familiar tan trench coat. Sam nearly choked on his beer as he struggled to contain his laughter. It really was like watching a Taiwanese drama. Dean, oblivious to the arrival of his obsessed admirer, continued his ministrations on the women at the bar. Cas, fraught with distress and unfounded jealousy upon seeing the object of Dean's attention, stood silently by the door with his hands clasped to his chest and anguish shining in his eyes. Sam could see the rage bubbling beneath the surface and knew the inner Cas was railing against the bar women, shouting about how Dean was his and his alone. He watched as a change came over the angel, a sort of hysteric determination came over him. Sam knew that whatever happened next, it was going to be good.

He watched silently as Cas squared his shoulders and strode purposefully over to Dean. He pushed through the women surrounding him and shoved an envelope at Dean. An envelope? Sam peered closer while trying to look casual. It was white, plain and unmarked. Cas held it forward in both hands, arms extended forward fully. He was bent at the waist, kind of half-bowing, head down and staring at his shoes. The angel took a breath and, fully expecting monotone English, it took Sam a moment to register the high tones spilling from Cas' lips.

"我爱你！请接受这封信作为我的爱的信物," he cried.

Dean wasn't doing any better. "What?" he demanded, clearly beyond confused. The bar was loud between the blasting music and general chatter of drunks. But even so, everyone within a five foot radius had stopped moving, eyes glued to Cas as if he had spontaneously sprouted green scales and breathed fire. Sam simply resisted the urge to laugh.

"请把它," Cas insisted.

"Cas?" Dean asked, still confused. "What the fuck are you… is that even English?"

Cas didn't answer, just pushed the envelope toward Dean again, poking him in the chest with it.

Numbly, Dean took the letter from Cas. Sam tried not to laugh at the look of sheet bewilderment and shock on Dean's face. It'd been a long time since Sam had seen his brother so blindsided. Cas had certainly thrown him a curveball.

As soon as Dean took the letter, Cas squealed "谢谢！", turned and bolted out the door. Sam didn't have to try very hard to imagine the Asian school girl outfit and an elaborate hairstyle on the angel. He was straight out of a Taiwanese drama. It was almost creepy, how well he personified all of the inept female leads. Sam considered that perhaps he should do something to set the gender and race confused angel straight, but it was too damn funny.

Even when Dean had come to his senses and stormed over to Sam's table, Sam still couldn't stop laughing. That earned him a painful punch to the shoulder, but he couldn't help it. It was just too hilarious. Only through herculean effort (and maybe a bit of encouragement from the homicidal glare Dean was shooting him) Sam managed to calm down enough to breathe.

"You done, chuckles?" Dean demanded, clearly incensed.

A few small laughs (_not_ giggles) escaped Sam. He wiped at his eyes and nodded. "Yeah. I'm done. You should have seen your face though."

"My gorgeous face isn't the problem here, Sam. The problem is Cas and the buckets of crazy he's decided to pour all over himself. What the hell was that? Pretty sure it wasn't even English."

"You know, for an angel he's so… _so_ confused."

"No shit, Shirlock. You got any idea what that was all about?"

Sam had an idea, but no way was he sharing it with Dean. "What did he give you?"

"Freaking Japanese gibberish, man." He slapped the letter onto the tabletop and slid it across to Sam, who examined it intently.

"It's Chinese, Dean."

"'Scuse me, Professor Woo."  
>"Dean."<p>

"Just shut up and read it, bitch."

"I can't read Chinese."

"Then do your geek-boy thing and translate it with your über-brain."

"If I can't read it, I probably can't translate it right now, Dean. I need my laptop."

"What are we doing here then? Move your ass!"

(***)

Two hours later, Sam had managed to painstakingly translate the letter. Actually, it wasn't painstaking at all. He just had to stop periodically to contain his laughter.

Cas had written Dean an honest-to-god love letter. It was all very sweet and heartfelt in a saccharine, emotionally stunted Taiwanese schoolgirl kind of way. But the simple fact that Cas had written _Dean_ a love letter—he might as well serenade a brick wall for all the headway he would make. Dean would shut him out faster than when Sam tried to get his brutish brother to discuss their latest bout of hardships. Even as Sam sat translating Cas' love letter, Dean sat stonily cleaning their arsenal on his bed. He hardly looked the approachable type receptive to gooey letters written in Chinese. Sam could hardly wait to give him the letter. For a desperate moment, he wished he had some sort of camera with which to immortalize Dean's soon to be catatonic shock.

With a final entry into Google Translate (now his best friend), Sam finished translating the transcription of Cas' feelings. He wandered over to Dean, mentally preparing himself to forever remember Dean's face as he read the letter.

"I'm done," Sam announced.

Dean looked up a tad too quickly. "Christ, you take forever." Too late, Dean realized what he'd said. "Not that I want to read it or anything…"

"Whatever. Just read it."

"Your face can read it."

Sam rolled his eyes but surrendered the letter when Dean snatched it out of his hands. He watched with barely contained glee as Dean's eyes got wider and wider, his eyebrows scampering so far into his hair that they were no longer visible. Sam watched his brother pause and read it again.

"Seriously, what the hell?"

Sam had to admit, he was slightly disappointed at Dean's reaction. He had been hoping for a more violent display of emotional denial or shock. But maybe Dean was too confused to actually interpret the contents of the letter in relation to _himself_.

"It's a love letter, Dean."

"Yeah, I got that, Clouseau. Weird, wrong in so many ways, love letter... 'I have oft idolized the way you manage to slash demon's throats in one fluid motion. One would expect the knife to become stuck in the bodily tissues but your awe inspiring strength makes the process look like "cutting through butter."' What the hell? Cas has completely—and I mean completely _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ lost it."

Sam sighed. He might as well explain. Dean was making every media connection but the important one. "Have you ever seen a Taiwanese drama, Dean?"

"Sam, now is not the time for your pansy choices in TV. Cas is seriously whacko, like he sees purple people whacko."

"No, Dean, the Taiwanese dramas are relevant here. Cas is acting exactly like one of the characters from the dramas. He probably found some on the internet or something and now he thinks that's the best way to win your affections."

"There are so many things wrong with that statement."  
>"Dean, suck it up. Cas is trying to tell you he loves you."<p>

"Christ. What's wrong with roses and chocolate?"

"You hate chocolate and roses…"

"Yeah, but it's better than Crazy McWeirderson!" Dean took a breath. "Damn it. What happens in your pansy dramas now?"

"You mean after the heroine confesses her love?"

"God, I can't believe we're related. Yes."

"Oh, well… usually they bump into each other in the hallway and admit their mutual feelings. Then they kiss and everything slows down in a montage of them kissing in some open, flowery field. Then the heroine runs away really happy."

Dean stared at Sam. "I need a beer."

Sam rolled his eyes as Dean stood to retrieve a beer from the mini fridge. He then proceeded to chug said beer. "You want to crush the can on your forehead for an extra display of testosterone?" Sam quipped.

Dean stared contemplatively at the beer can. "I always knew you were girly, Sam, but I never realized you were actually a full on _girl_. I mean, I'm cool with you no matter who you are… but I draw the line at buying tampons."

"You're such a jerk," Sam said. He lobbed a pillow at Dean, who caught the projectile with frustrating ease. He grinned and tossed his beer can into the trash. A moment later he was at the motel door. "Where are you going?" Sam demanded.

Dean ignored him, shutting the door behind him and standing in the parking lot outside. It was getting dark out, but there was still enough fading light on the horizon to see clearly. Sam watched as Dean's mouth silently formed the name 'Cas'. Moments later, the angel appeared a mere two feet from Dean. He stood shyly, hands clasped before him and refusing to meet Dean's eyes. Sam watched the scene unfold exactly as a Taiwanese drama would. Dean's lips moved, presumably voicing his mutual feelings. Cas glanced down bashfully and looked up at Dean through his lashes, a sparkle of hope daring to glimmer in his blue eyes. Then Dean said something that made Cas' body language practically explode with unadulterated joy. He bounced around for a moment until he jumped into Dean's arms. Sam looked away as they locked lips. He felt like enough of an emasculated creeper as it was.


	60. Cold Feet

It was an unusually calm afternoon. Golden sunlight streamed through the thin motel curtains and warmed Dean as he lay sprawled on his bed. Remote control in hand and eyes glued to the television he didn't see the danger innocently sneaking his way, inch by torturous inch. Still, the pale menace crept closer and closer. Toes wiggled in giddy anticipation and still it crept closer. Dean barely felt the stirring of the edge of his t-shirt—he was too absorbed in the rerun of _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ He was distracted, and for that distraction, he would ultimately pay the price.

It all happened so fast, Dean had no time to realize what hit him. In a freezing flash of chilled flesh, Cas' foot wormed it way into his t-shirt and settled against his side. The sudden cold was unbelievably frigid. It was downright arctic. Dean's muscles seized in shock and he jackknifed off the bed, upsetting the beer on the end table. The remote went flying. Blankets were catapulted into the air and the lamp crashed to the floor. Both Dean and Cas were thrown from their respectively comfortable perches and onto the unforgiving coldness of the dingy, carpeted floor.

Dean sat up, breathing hard and thoroughly confused. "Christ, Cas! Your feet are fucking _cold!_"


	61. The Sound of Music

"If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break," Dean moaned. "If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break. If the levee breaks, have no place to stay…"

"Dean! Come on, man," Sam begged. "There's only a hundred miles between us and Greely. Can't you contain your… yowling until then?"

"First, singing along with Robert Plant isn't yowling. It's finding God."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Second, untwist your panties. My car, my music, my rules. I'm in a good mood and I'll sing along with Zeppelin if I want to."

"Can we pull over for a bit?"

"Hey, as you so bitchily pointed out, we're only a hundred miles away. Sit tight."

"Fine. Just quit singing."

"Or what?"

"Or… I'll key the Impala."

Dean slammed on the breaks and the tires screamed as the Impala skidded to an abrupt stop. The look Dean was giving Sam was somewhere between homicidal rage (toward Sam), unyielding over protectiveness (toward the Impala) and shock (in general). Sam felt the sudden urge to leap from the Impala. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to threaten Dean's baby, but he immediately regretted it as fear for his wellbeing burbled up in his chest.

"Dean, I…"

"Dean. Sam."

The brothers turned to the backseat. Cas sat stonily, watching them blankly. Sam had never been so happy to see the angel. He wanted to leap into the backseat and give him a kiss for his impeccable timing. The only thing that stopped Sam was his certainty that doing so would only piss Dean off more.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said, sufficiently distracted from his malice. "How long you been lurking back there?" He couldn't recall hearing wings.

"You are incorrect, Dean. If the levee broke, you _would_ have no place to stay."

"Bite your tongue, heathen," Dean ordered, scowling.

"I am no heathen," Cas corrected, scowling as well. "I am an angel of the Lord."

Dean rolled his eyes. "If you change Zeppelin lyrics for the bullshit purpose of nitpicky English, you might as well be a heathen." He turned back to the road, pulling off the shoulder. "You're an angel, man. You of all people should know that Robert Plant, Jimmy Page and _all_ of Zeppelin is God."

"They are not…"

Dean made elaborate and noisy shushing sounds that increased in volume every time Cas tried to dispute Dean's claim. Sam rolled his eyes and stared out the window.

Were they there _yet?_

To be Continued….


	62. The Sound of Music, Part 2

Castiel left the Impala considerably more confused than he had entered. Dean's English had been incorrect and ultimately the reason for his visit (it was a slow day). But the incessant talk of music had both puzzled and intrigued the angel. He wasn't concerned by Dean's assertion that 'Zeppelin is God'. He was secure enough in his angelic-ness that he knew the hunter to be incorrect, if harmlessly exaggerating. But Dean's devotion to the band intrigued Castiel. He was obviously devout to Zeppelin in a way he wasn't to Michael, God and all angels. Castiel wondered what could be so amazing about a certain arrangement of tones, noises and words as to inspire God-like reverence in an otherwise cynical and faithless hunter.

Mind made up, Castiel vowed to discover more of the strange and enigmatic concept of music.

(***)

It was beautiful. Surpassing the musical finesse of the seraphim in heaven, it was nothing short of divine. Castiel found himself without words adequate to quantify the glory contained in the lilting notes. In a heady, melodic rush Castiel suddenly realized what Dean had meant when he proclaimed Zeppelin God. Music was so much more than a mere collection of tones, rhythms and lyrics. It was like hearing the divine voice of his father as clearly as if he were speaking to Castiel personally. It was pure, simple and yet infinitely complicated. Contained in its bars and notes were divine messages and power unlike anything Castiel had experienced before.

But still, Dean had been wrong.

Zeppelin isn't God. Opera is God.

Every melody was perfect, as if crafted by the hand of God Himself. The notes, purer than angels weeping, floated through the air on sweet breezes. Waves of emotion poured over Castiel, at once tickling his toes and bringing a laugh as well as dragging him down into suffocating blackness.

He absorbed it all with the reverence of a dying man granted his salvation. He understood Dean's faith to the lead airship. He had fostered faith of his own—faith in opera and the glorious artisans that breathed life into its sadly archaic lyrics.

It was love at first note. Castiel suddenly devoted massive amounts of his infinite time to listening to, singing and watching opera. Already fluent in the major operatic languages such as Italian, German and French, he soon learned opera after glorious opera.

He loved them for their honest simplicity—comedic or tragic. Most were stories of misguided romance, documenting the hapless struggles of jilted lovers as they attempted to entrap their wayward partner and ultimately rekindle their passion. Castiel understood their love stories. For all that Dean made him out to be ignorant of human drives and customs, none of that mattered in opera. During their lengthy, drawn out arias he understood their wants, their fears and their motivations. Operas were comparatively old to the modern century, but for Castiel they refreshing and new. They were of an uncomplicated era, one blessedly free of Deans and their confusing cultural references that Cas could never seem to get one up on.

(***)

As days went by, Cas' life became increasingly centered around opera. The Winchesters initially paid him no mind, even enabling his growing obsession when Sam obliged Cas' want for an MP3 player. It became common for Cas to tag along with the Winchesters while completely ignoring them as aria after aria echoed in his ears thanks to his new ear-buds. Soon he was singing along. Dean complained, but Sam told him in no uncertain terms to shut it after a pointed reminder that Dean always did the same thing.

It wasn't until two weeks later that the Winchesters realized the depth of Cas' new obsession.

(***)

Dean sat on his bed, cleaning their guns. Sam was stationed at the table, doing a last minute internet sweep before they embarked on the ganking section of their hunt. Experience had taught them to double check to ensure they didn't miss anything. Cas popped in, unusually quiet. The Winchesters had become used to his operatic mumbling accompanied by the faint whine of the music as it filtered through the cheap earphones.

Dean shot Sam a look and both men shrugged.

"What's crackin', Cas?"

Rather than answer, Cas turned toward Dean with an unexpectedly intense look in his eyes. Hands clasped before him, he parted his lips and began to sing. The projected notes poured forth from and seemed to fill the motel room as he projected his voice. He was good, surprisingly so. His voice was steady, pure and lilting. The extended notes seemed to hover on his lips for a moment before cascading down in a heavy but pleasant rush.

Sam had been to operas before (with Jess). It hadn't been all bad. But even without orchestral accompaniment Cas was as good as any show he'd paid to see. Well, he was good for the first few seconds. But when the aria began to stretch on into minutes—minutes of drippy, Italian warbling—both brothers began to quickly tire of it, regardless of how good Cas was. A few minutes quickly turned into ten. The entire time, Cas sang. Occasionally, he would move around the room, expression appropriately mournful for opera. His hands flitted about as he pulled objects into his act—a lamp, the TV. He even went so far as to run a loving hand down a picture frame and stare out the window as if it was rainy and dark.

"Dean," Sam hissed. "Do something."

"I'm open to suggestions, here."

Heedless of the Winchesters' discomfort, Cas continued singing. He wandered closer to the irritated brothers, settling himself beside Dean as he vocalized his anguish. With sorrow-filled eyes, he stared at Dean, reaching out as if to touch him but seemingly unable.

"Cas!" Dean demanded. "Stop singing."

The angel ignored him, simultaneously singing to Dean and looking as if Dean were really thousands of miles away from him and ultimately beyond his reach.

"Cas!"

Still no response.

Dean shot a look at Sam. "What now?"

"How should I know?"

The brothers watched helplessly as the auditory onslaught continued. Soon the aria (a name helpfully supplied by Sam) had continued on into the twenty minute mark. After what had to be a solid half hour of singing, the angel finally quieted. The Winchesters were hardly cheering for an encore. Dean was ready to punch Cas in the face, broken knuckles be damned—the angel had seriously taken the swan dive off the deep end. But with Sam's urging, Dean calmed his impatience and hoped Cas' crazy would just peter out.

Unfortunately, Winchester luck being what it was, Cas' crazy didn't peter out. He continued his singing in the motel room that night, and on into the following days. When Cas began following them on hunts and singing his way through them, the Winchesters decided it was time for action. Cas obviously wasn't going to get better on his own. The only problem was, how to fix him?

(***)

For the millionth time that night, Dean pulled at his collar. Sam slapped his fidgeting hand away.

"Remind me again why we're here," Dean demanded hotly. "My memory's a bit fuzzy since this monkey suit's choking the life out of me."

"We're here for Cas, Dean."

"I get that, numbnuts. But why this? Why couldn't he just perform in the motel room… where they have t-shirts and jeans, cable, and beer and comfy chairs… and cable."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Cas' most recent obsession is opera. Opera singers perform on stage. And I don't know about you, Dean, but I'm really tired of opera-Cas ruining the very important element of surprise in our lives. So if we want to cure him, this is the only option I'm seeing."

"Right, cause some backwoods school gymnasium is exactly where I'd hold my breakout performance."

"If you keep your mouth shut, it won't matter. For all Cas knows, this is the Met."

Dean snorted. "Poor guy."

"He's confused, Dean. This whole thing is for his benefit."

"He's an angel. All of this—" Dean waved a hand around them, "—is like overstimulation to their emotionless, stunted brains."

"Are you actually defending him?"

Dean looked away. "All I'm saying is, dude's not cut out for this. But it'd be weirder and a thousand times more annoying if he knew how everything worked already."

"You are defending him. That's cute."

"Shut it, bitch, or I'll strangle you with your tie."

Sam didn't bother hiding his smile.

Thankfully preventing further brother torture, the lights dimmed. A hushed silence descended over the Winchesters automatically. Despite the modest settings, rented for $100 from the school janitor, the silence was heavy. A tenseness settled in the air, transforming into the zing of anxiety as it balanced on the tip of the tongue. Indiscernibly at first, then growing in volume, the overture to Mozart's _The Barber of Seville_ began to drift from the strategically mounted speakers. Castiel, angel of the Lord, wandered onstage, costumed to the nines. He wandered into the bright shaft of the spotlight, took a breath and began to sing.

(***)

Dean's ears couldn't comprehend the noises being fed to them. Used to the sharp whines of Zeppelin guitars or the melodic roar of Metallica vocals, they had no idea what to do with the lilting notes pouring forth from Cas' mouth. They were pure and true, seeming to scythe through the air and plunge themselves into the auditory meatus, at once sending his senses into dizzyingly and enjoyable disarray. His ears were confused, stumped. Helplessly, they passed the notes onward to the brain, hoping some sense could be made elsewhere.

The synapses shared the ears' confusion. Dutifully, they ferried the information onward, but were no more able to decipher what to do with the notes. It was foreign and pleasing all at once, causing an extreme conflict. The senses were unsure whether to turn against the alien noises or to roll blissfully in their exotic nature.

To the center of the brain, the information was whisked. As it reached command central, all senses and parties otherwise gathered to hear the ruling of the almighty, to hear its judgment of the strange and pleasing new sounds.

The almighty, a miniature representation of Dean himself, considered the notes carefully. He judged the tempo, comparing it to known musical samples in the databanks. He considered the rhythm, the pacing of the words and the meaning of the words themselves—foreign and non-English as they were. He catalogued and systematically studied each and every instrument present in the orchestral accompaniment. After a few moments, he determined it was like nothing they had ever experienced before. A murmur of unrest slithered through the gathering crowd.

But what to make of it? they wondered. It isn't like anything we've seen previous. We must formulate a new judgment upon which we will base all future decisions of a similar nature when this strange new sound is concerned.

The almighty carefully consulted all subsets of Dean's brain and answered their questions in turn.

Is it good to sing to? No. Is it English? No, Italian. Is it girly? Possibly. Can one have sex to it? Possibly. It doesn't remind us of Dad. Sam knows a fair amount about it, making it slightly nerdy.

It is ancient—but the same can be said about the Impala.

At last, the most important question arose: Do we like it?

Yes, we do.

An uproarious cheer went through the crowd. All parties present relayed the information to their friends and neighbors. Inwardly, the almighty looked upon Cas with awe, and a bit of adoration. Outwardly, Dean hid a smile and pulled at the collar of his suit again.

He was _not _enjoying this, damn it.

(***)

The performance concluded on a humorously preposterous note, as some operas are known to do. Cas emerged once more and took his bows, milking his 'audience' for all the applause they would give him. By the time the angel disappeared to de-costume, Dean's hands were sore to the point of stinging from the persistent clapping. Sam's cheek muscles were seizing from constantly smiling for Cas' sake. Admittedly, the angel's performance hadn't been that bad. Hell, for a one man show of _The Barber of Seville_, it had been fantastic. It was simply that the Winchesters had to do such things in the first place that irked them most.

But Dean soon forgot his façade of irritation when Cas bounded down the stairs and into the seats toward them. Dude looked so happy, Dean couldn't bring himself to crush Cas' dream—no matter how freakish and inconvenient.

His angel could sing opera. As far as Dean was concerned, the world could suck it. Cas was Awesome with a capital 'A', thank you. That and Dean had discovered a rather new (as in discovered within the last three hours) stagehand/performer kink he very much wanted to indulge.

Maybe opera wasn't so bad.


	63. The Magic Bundt

"I'm going for supplies," Dean announced. "You need anything, Sammy?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Cas?"

The angel glanced up at the hunter. "I would… like to go with you."

"Yeah?" Dean arched a brow. "It's just the food store. Nothing exciting."

"I would still like to go."

"Come on, then."

Castiel stood and followed Dean out to the Impala. The two slid into the car and pulled away from the motel. A few miles down the road, Dean couldn't keep his questions to himself any longer. The gloomy silence radiating from Cas was making him edgy. "Cas, is this—I mean, wanting to go to the grocery store—is it because you lost your mojo?"

"Yes. I want to learn more about human customs, now that I am essentially mortal. I do not want to be a burden to you and Sam."

Dean looked away, kind of feeling like a dick for bringing it up in the first place and inadvertently making Cas think they only wanted him for his powers. Sure, it kicked ass to have an angel on your side, but Dean and Sam weren't using him. Hell, Dean was fond of the awkward angel. He considered him a friend and a brother—Dean didn't give two shits whether Cas had his powers or not. But rather than make a further hash of things, he shut his mouth and stared out at the road ahead. Maybe when they got to the store Cas would come out of his funk.

Inside the store, Cas shadowed Dean through the aisles as he went through their scant shopping list: razors, shaving cream, laundry detergent, beer, a bag of chips and a box of condoms. Dean wondered where the nearest liquor store was—they were officially out of hunter's helper. As they were moseying toward the checkout, Cas' suddenly veered off down an aisle. Dean skidded to a stop and followed the angel. Cas cut through the beer and soda aisle to the bakery section. Dean came up beside him and saw the angel intently staring at a Bundt cake. It wasn't anything special—chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and encased in an otherwise unremarkable brown box. On the front, 'Magic Bundt' was printed in script letters. Cas gripped the box loosely in his hands and looked up at Dean.

"Dean, may I have this?"

"You want a Bundt cake?"

"I want this one."

"Uh, okay…" Dean thought back to the car ride over and felt a bit guilty for pouring lemon juice in Cas' wounds. He'd buy Cas the cake as an apology. Cas was staring at it as if it was the answer to all his problems. Hey, who was Dean to judge? At least the angel only wanted to drown his problems in chocolate. Hell of a lot better than, say, whiskey. Dean frowned at his own thoughts and ushered Cas and his beloved Bundt to the checkout.

Back at the motel, Dean unloaded their loot and rolled his eyes as Cas whisked his Bundt cake into the kitchen. Dean watched in stunned surprise as Cas tore the box open, reached in and ripped a huge chunk off the cake. The angel devoured his handful in a matter of seconds and was on to the next one. In under a minute, the entire Bundt was gone. Almost in relief, Cas leaned back against the countertop and closed his eyes. He heaved a sigh, suspended in silence and immobility for a moment. Suddenly, his blue eyes flew open and he made his way toward Dean in purposeful strides. If Dean didn't know better, he would say the angel had his powers back. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, one that bespoke power and belief. Maybe there was even a glimmer of… hope?

"Cas, what…?"

The angel didn't answer. He reached forward, two fingers extended. The fingers landed squarely on Dean's forehead. Involuntarily, Dean winced. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but Cas had looked full-on _Terminator_ a moment ago. He really didn't want to piss the dude off.

But nothing happened. There was no flash of blinding light, no sound of wings, no nothing. Dean shot a questioning glance at Cas. As if the angel had deflated, he sunk down into a chair. Listlessly and boneless, he rested there. The spark of badassery was gone from his eyes. He looked tired.

"Cas?" Dean ventured.

The angel didn't respond and Dean left him to it. He understood wanting to be left alone.

(***)

A few days later, Cas appeared beside Dean as the hunter was washing the Impala.

"Dean."

"Yeah, Cas."

"I would like some money."

Dean paused in his scrubbing of the driver's door and peered at Cas. "Mind if I ask why?"

"I want more Bundt cake."

"Why?"

"It was… delicious."

Dean gave Cas a doubtful look, but shrugged. He wiped his hands on his jeans and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Extracting a ten dollar bill, he handed it to the angel. "You'll have to wait if you want me to drive you to the store."

"I do not require transportation."

"Okay…"

The angel turned to leave.

"Cas!" Dean called. The angel turned and waited expectantly. "You feeling alright?"

"I am fine. Thank you for your concern, Dean."

Cas turned and walked away. Dean waved halfheartedly and turned back to washing the Impala. Freaking angels, man.

(***)

Half an hour later, Dean had finished washing his baby and was ready to take her out for a celebratory drive and fill her up. The gas station was in the same plaza as the grocery store, and as he stood beside the gas pump, his thoughts wandered to Cas. Something was going on with the angel. He was acting weird—even for Cas, weird. It was making Dean twitchy to know he was missing something.

As he stood absorbed in his thoughts, movement drew his eye. He glanced toward the front of the store and through the glass doors could make out the back of a very familiar tan trench coat. As Dean watched, a man in a white shirt and a vest—a manager?—walked toward Cas and got in the angel's face, making an elaborate series of angry gestures.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Damn it, Cas," he muttered. He finished pumping his gas, paid and speed walked toward the grocery. The manager was obviously pissed about something and Dean wanted to diffuse this whole situation before it escalated and the authorities were dialed. That was the last thing they needed. Ass end of nowhere town or not, cops and Winchesters mix like water and oil.

As he neared the store, Dean plastered on his best Winchester glare and molded his walk into one of machismo and intimidation. If he could scare the stupid manager away, he could spirit Cas away too and resolve things quickly. He didn't doubt his chances—Winchester anger is something to behold. And when faced with icy malice encased in Dean's luminescent green eyes, who stands a chance?

No one, that's who.

And the manager was no exception. As Dean walked in, the man visibly cringed. His shoulders slumped slightly, and the redness began to drain from his face. Immediately, Dean surveyed his surroundings, trying to immediately determine what the problem was and head the manager off. His façade of bravado nearly dropped clean off when he caught sight of what the problem was.

_Fucking Christ, Cas. What have you done?_ Dean wondered.

The bakery section was a disaster. Open cake boxes—Bundt cake boxes—were strewn everywhere like carcasses. Whole packages of cookies had been cast aside in a hurried attempt to locate the Bundts. Behind the counter, boxes were upset, cakes upturned and general chaos reigned. Everywhere, crumbs of devoured cakes littered the floor. Smears of frosting decorated displays and countertops. It looked like a massive food fight had taken place. And in the center of the carnage, covered in frosting and with chocolate smeared around his mouth, was the one man responsible for it all.

Castiel had the good grace to look apologetic.

(***)

Safely ensconced in the Impala's interior, Dean glared daggers at Cas. He didn't care that the angel was in a funk and had been having a bad week. Dean was pissed. Having to shell out $175 for twenty-five shitty Bundt cakes tended to have that affect. He refused to start the Impala and drive away. He wanted answers.

"Start talking before I start throwing punches, Cas."

Cas sighed. "I thought they would replenish my… mojo… as you call it."

Dean hadn't expected that one. "What?"

"I thought they would replenish—"

"No, no," Dean interrupted. "I got that. What I don't understand is the connection between twenty-five Bundt cakes and you getting your mojo back."

"The packaging was misleading."

"In what way?"

"It said it was magic."

Dean's brain made the connection in a rush. He remembered the cake he had bought Cas. 'Magic Bundt' it had said. And the angel, in his perpetual confusion, had taken it literally. Dean so didn't want to have that discussion at the moment. Instead, he sighed and started the Impala. "Let's go home," he said.

Cas raised no objections and silently cleaned the chocolate frosting off his fingers.


	64. Chopsticks 101

**A/N: We're aware staking isn't the usual way to gank a vampire on **_**Supernatural**_**, but for our purposes it's feasible and legitimately life saving.**

"Hold them like this."

"I do not understand."

Dean heaved a sigh, once again dropping his chopsticks in favor of correcting Cas' form. After repositioning the angel's thumb and forefinger for the millionth time, he gathered his pair and held them in demonstration. "Like this. Now open and close them. Good."

"I do not understand how using these… chopsticks is considered a necessary skill."

"You're human now, Cas. That means you have to eat and eating costs money. Chinese food, Thai, Teriyaki—they're all cheap, which matters to you now. And you get chopsticks with it. So," Dean paused to readjust Cas' grip again. "Unless you want to starve, you learn how to use chopsticks."

The angel made a small noise of frustration, but dutifully plowed ahead. Soon he was fairly proficient at using the chopsticks, able to retrieve various bits of steamed veggies from the to-go boxes of Chinese food decorating the kitchen table. Dean leaned back and nodded once in satisfaction. The hunter had anticipated some resistance from the angel during the course of his teachings—it was becoming par for the course, honestly. Dean didn't mind the constant angel-tutorials. But he did wonder when it would end. How many more things could the angel not know how to do? Dean was pretty sure they'd nearly run the gamut.

It was a beautiful day out—the sun was shining in full force and the sky was clear and brilliant blue. Dean had every intention of putting some TLC into his baby that afternoon. It was so nice out. But it was nice inside too. Dean had gone around and opened all the doors and windows to air out the perpetual smell of dry rot, mold and whiskey that permeated Bobby's house like a pungent perfume. Occasionally, a breeze blew through the house and Dean closed his eyes contentedly. Beer in hand and hapless angel opposite him at the table—things were good. As he sat silently watching Cas fiddle with the chopsticks, a whisper of movement drew his attention. Dean's carefree nonchalance faded as he became acutely aware of their surroundings.

He listened and the noise came again. It sounded as if it was in the scrap yard behind the house and drawing nearer to the back door. Dean listened intently for any indication of the intruder's whereabouts. For several minutes, things were silent. Even Cas had picked up on Dean's sudden alertness. The angel had abandoned his chopsticks and stared at the hunter, head cocked to one side and obviously confused.

"Dean, what—"

The hunter shushed him, standing swiftly and settling into a crouch. The scrap yard was silent. The house was silent. Dean and Cas were silent.

Dean became very aware of a presence behind them. On a dime he spun around and found himself face to face with a very hungry, very pissed off vampire. Teeth gnashing and spittle flying every direction, it advanced on Dean. The hunter backed up a step, mind frantically searching for a weapon. They didn't have any machetes on hand—they were all in the trunk of the Impala.

The vamp dove at Dean. The hunter dropped into a roll, popping up on the other side of the kitchen in time to see the vampire blur toward him. There wasn't anywhere to go. Dean felt the full weight of the vampire's generous teenage weight hit him in the chest. He hit the ground hard, hard enough that the breath was forced from his chest. Dean hardly noticed. He knew that every second counted with vampires; even overweight ones.

A valiant struggle ensued and with each passing moment Dean's strength waned and the vampire's gnashing teeth grew closer and closer to his neck. Dean knew he had to act fast or they were all goners—he had no idea where Cas was and didn't have time to worry. As the vampire picked him up and threw him across the room like a rag doll he didn't have time to react. He collided with the table legs, back first, and felt the wood splinter when it met his inertial force. The boxes of Chinese food slid off the tabletop and landed on the floor in a shower of sauces, noodles and limp, steamed vegetables. The vampire paused for a moment, surprised at the viscous mess slowly oozing its way across the floor. Dean's eyes caught a glimpse of his salvation—a chopstick. It was wood. Well, bamboo, but that had to count for something. He'd seen vampires staked with pencils in movies. Granted, Dean knew movies were hardly reliable when it came to the supernatural, but he'd take anything at the moment. As far as other, feasible options went they were seriously fucked.

Praying his half-assed plan worked, Dean snatched the chopstick from a gloppy mound of sweet and sour pork. He propelled himself upward from the floor and darted toward the vampire. In a high arc, he brought the chopstick down and into the vampire's chest. He felt the tiny shred of resistance as he punctured the breastplate and the chopstick found its mark in the vampire's heart. The vamp froze for a moment, stunned at what had just happened. He looked down at his rotund chest. Like a cruel joke, a single chopstick was sticking out of his chest. He glanced back up at Dean and made a half gurgle, half plea that stuck behind his flabby lips. The smell of burning flesh filled the air and the vampire exploded in a wet blast. Blood, guts, fat and all manner of bodily fluids flew every direction. They coated the walls, the floor, the ceiling, Dean and even Cas (who had the presence of mind to move out of the kitchen when the scuffle began, but was not outside the blast zone). The remaining silence was punctuated by the wet _plop, plop_ of liquids as they dripped down the walls.

Dean stood frozen for a long moment, trying not to think about how he was covered head to toe in gushy, puréed, teenage vampire.

"I believe I now understand the necessity of chopstick knowledge," Cas announced.


End file.
